


and we are well versed in moments

by notbang



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: A mix of angst and fluff, F/M, One Shot Collection, also: harry potter puns, ranging from disgusting things like marriage and puppies, to aborted attempts at burning things and painful goodbyes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-06-11 07:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15310068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notbang/pseuds/notbang
Summary: A collection of Rebecca/Nathaniel oneshots.





	1. things you didn't say at all

**Author's Note:**

> A series of oneshots, mostly from prompt memes over on tumblr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'things you didn't say at all'. An AU of sorts to 3x10.

“What are you doing here?”

She shoves the pile of his belongings into his chest without a word, cutting him off, before pivoting on her heel and heading back for the stairwell.

“Rebecca? Wh—Rebecca,  _wait._ ”

He drops the pile unceremoniously in the doorway in favour of pursuing her, his hurried long strides allowing him to catch up to her with considerable ease.

“ _Rebecca._ ”

She stops at the top of the stairs but doesn’t face him, bracing herself with a wobbly breath.

“What the hell was that? What’s all this stuff? And why…” He trails off, noticing for the first time the damp patch they’ve left where they were pressed up against his shirt and the biting smell left on his fingers. He pulls a face. “Why does it smell like vodka?”

When she finally turns around her eyes are wide and forlorn, two days’ worth of residual mascara smudges lining their red rims and accentuating the accompanying bags underneath. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days, her skin sallow and features gaunt.

“The stuff is all yours,” she says with an undignified sniff and a jaunt of her chin, “and it smells like vodka because I put it all in my sink and poured half a bottle of Tito’s over it so I could set it on fire.”

Nathaniel’s eyebrows climb his forehead as she crosses her arms and looks pointedly away, making it abundantly clear what happened to the  _other_  half of the bottle.

“Wow. Okay.” He waits for her to elaborate but she gives him nothing. “In that case I’m… glad you decided otherwise? Though you could have at least washed them before returning them. Just as a courtesy.”

Her whole body tenses with irritation at the answering impulse because she  _hates_  this—hates how good he is at making her laugh when objectively she’s pretty sure he’s not actually that funny, but something about his delivery, all uncharacteristic soft smiles and gentle sincerity hits her hard somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, sending warmth blossoming through her like hot ink blooming in water through her bloodstream until she feels it everywhere, not just her chest but the pit of her stomach and in the tips of her curling fingers and toes and she wants to be  _sick_ , wants to purge herself of all the fondness she feels for him until she doesn’t have to feel anything anymore.

She licks her lips. “Anyway, this is just… this is character growth, is all this is. Because last time I did this I kind of set my house on fire, and then I pooped in a shoe on YouTube.”

“So you’ve mentioned before,” he says, brow starting to crease in concern. “Are you… are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Never been better. Having a great time. So great I should probably start putting it on Instagram, actually. You know, just me and Tito and a box of matches, chilling in my kitchen,  _not_  setting fire to my ex boyfriend’s stuff. Hashtag super lit up, or whatever the kids are saying these days when they have to scroll through their feed and see twelve hundred photos of the person they were dating two weeks ago getting cosy with a mutual funds manager named Mona-underscore-Katherine-fifty-five. Or whatever. Not that I’ve memorised her username, or anything. But it’s just like, could she be any more original?”

She sniffs agitatedly, nostrils flared, and Nathaniel regards her display with thinly veiled incredulity, crossing his arms over his chest as he scoffs at her.

“ _You_  broke up with  _me_ , Rebecca. Remember?”

“I know that. I do. I just…” She heaves a shaky breath, her whole body shuddering. “You were supposed to wait for me. I wanted you to wait.” Her voice becomes quiet and muffled as she curls in on herself, collapsing against the wall with a despondent thud. “Why couldn’t you see that?”

All trace of haughtiness drains right out of him and for a moment all he can do is stare, her words working their way through him like an icy jab to his stomach, sending his blood running cold.

“You never asked me to,” he says, dumbly.

“Because I couldn’t,” she says, shaking her head through the tears already welling up in her eyes. “Because that’s selfish, and I have no idea how long it’ll be until I’m ready, or if I’ll ever be ready, so I couldn’t ask that. But you moved straight on to Mona, with the perfect hair, and the perfect eyebrows, and the perfect brain chemistry, probably, like I was nothing, like what we had was nothing.” She jabs an accusing finger at him in a briefly renewed burst of fury before her shoulders sag again under the weight of her warring emotions. “And I know it was only three weeks, and I told you it wasn’t real but that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I meant, because I liked you. I really liked you, and I never got to tell you.”

There’s a beat and a frustrated noise he vaguely registers must be coming from him and then his hands are on her face before he can even think, crushing her mouth into his, and the moment he touches her she ignites, surging into him, desperate, a hopeless whine bubbling up in her throat until he swallows it down as he all but inhales her.

He kisses her with an urgency he hasn’t felt before, not when he wanted her but thought he’d never have her and certainly not when he had her and thought foolishly, naively, he’d never have to let her go. Their noses knock together, hard, his hand gathering in her hair to hold her against him as he breathes her in like she’s oxygen and he’s combusting, like if he lets go she’ll crumble into ashes in his arms and disappear.

And then she’s clawing at his shirt and he catches a whiff of the alcohol again, either from the fabric or her breath or both, and finds himself painfully, despairingly, ironically sobering. He pushes back at her shoulders, Rebecca mewling in protest and determinedly trying to climb his body, trying to pull him closer.

“We can’t do this,” he says gently, finally succeeding in easing her off him.

“Because you have a girlfriend?” she hiccups, wiping pathetically at her face.

_Right._

“Because you’re drunk,” he says, because for some reason he’s never, ever been able to handle the idea of her regretting him. “And because I have a girlfriend,” he adds, because he supposes that’s probably safer.

Her eyes scrunch shut as if she’s trying to will the very memory of him away and he watches her, both of them breathing heavy and him wishing he could smooth out the pained crease in her forehead with the pad of his thumb; wishing he could gather her back into his arms and take her inside and hold her until she stops shaking. She takes a deep breath, the effort of it rattling right through her, and when she opens her eyes again her pupils are still blown wide and the whites are rimmed in red from her tears.

He swallows, voice low when he speaks. “How did you get here? You didn’t—”

“Cab,” she says before he can finish, swiping her sleeve across the underside of her nose.

“I want to drive you home. But I don’t think…”

“It’s okay,” she says, nodding. “I get it. I’ll be okay. I just—I should go.”

She wraps her arms around herself, exhaling so hard it comes out more like a broken moan. He scrunches his hands at his sides to keep from reaching for her at the sound of it, forcing himself to turn and take the footsteps back into his apartment instead of following her as she disappears down the stairwell, her messy curls bouncing as she takes all the steps in a rush and probably far too hurried than what is strictly safe in her state of inebriation.

When he gets inside he stuffs his vodka-soaked Stanford shirt into the laundry basket along with the clothes he’s wearing and runs the shower spray hot, too hot, almost hotter than he can stand until he’s nearly scalding in the steam.

Rebecca may not have set fire to his clothes but everywhere she’s touched him he feels nothing but scorch marks on his skin, his heart, his heavy soul, and when he crawls beneath the covers that night he thinks  _I wanted you to wait_  on unbearable repeat in his brain until it burns.


	2. things you said when you were scared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt Rebecca + Paula or Nathaniel + Darryl - 'things you said when you were scared'.

“Oh, look at you. You look just like a princess. And not a Disney one, or a boring real one, but a celebrity one—like Meghan, or Kate.”

“Thanks, Mama,” Rebecca says, reaching up to grasp Paula’s hand where it rests on her shoulder and beaming back at her in the mirror.

Paula bustles about around her, gathering the robe she’s just discarded and hanging it neatly over the back of a chair before grabbing the shoe box from the counter and bending to place the diamante-encrusted kitten heels on the floor in front of her feet.

“Cinderella—your crystal slippers,” Paula offers with a flourish, accepting the hands Rebecca holds out for balance as she toes herself into them.

“Thank you, milady,” she says graciously, curtsying.

“Alright. So we’ve got about twenty minutes until we need to get you downstairs. How are we feeling?”

“Good. Good,” Rebecca says, exhaling and smiling through the uninvited wrinkle forming in her brow. “Everything is perfect. V’s planned this thing within an inch of its life and it’s all running like clockwork. And I’m so happy, nothing can ruin this for me. I mean, that’s how I felt at my last wedding, too, but it’s not like this is going to be a repeat of that.” She laughs too loudly, the sound completely forced. “It’s fine. Nobody gets ditched at the altar twice.”

The smile slides from Rebecca’s face.

“Uh oh,” Paula says.

“He’s going to be there, though.” She turns to her friend, paling, her eyes suddenly wide with panic. “Paula, he’s going to be there, right?”

“Oh, honey,” Paula says soothingly, face crinkling. “This isn’t going to be anything like the last time. I promise.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know that. Because there’s a common thread in all of these disasters, and it’s me.” Rebecca jabs forcefully at the air with her pointer fingers as her rapidly derailing thoughts gain momentum. “So if things were to go that way again, honestly, I couldn’t be surprised. The universe has been sending me a lot of signals. For someone that puts an unhealthy amount of credence on signs, I’ve been ignoring a pretty big one these past few years.”

“Okay, you need to calm down.”

Rebecca screws her eyes shut tightly, shaking her head. “You know what? I’ll call him. I’ll just give him a quick call, to see how he’s tracking, and take a few breaths, and everything is going to be fine.”

She crosses the room to scramble for her purse and fumbles so hard with her phone she almost drops it, her hands trembling, and by the time she’s located him on her speed dial and held it up to her ear she’s on the verge of a panic attack.

“He’s not answering,” she gulps, shaking out her free hand to try to rid herself of the quiver. “Paula, he’s not answering.”

“Well, he’s probably busy mussing with his hair, or something. That’s gotta take some focus, right? He probably just can’t hear his phone.” Paula steps in front of her and gently pries the phone from her grasp, terminating the call just as it goes to voicemail and placing it off to the side on the table, relieved when Rebecca allows herself to be eased into a chair. “So, you need to take a deep breath, and maybe sit down—”

Rebecca pushes herself suddenly back to her feet, frantic. “Ohhhh, Paula—I can’t go through this again. I can’t. My mom’s going to kill me, for putting her through this humiliation twice. She’ll disown me. The entire family will cast me out. One failed wedding is an inconvenience. But two—two is just outright attention seeking, and practically begging for eternal shame and shunning.”

“Well, not to be a bitch, or anything, but I’m staunchly of the opinion that Naomi disowning you is far from the worst thing that could happen to you. I’d go so far as to argue it would be an improvement, even. You don’t need that kind of negativity in your life,” Paula says wryly. “Honey, don’t get yourself all worked up. You’re freaking out over nothing.”

Rebecca’s still in the midst of pacing when Valencia appears in the doorway, all effortless and intimidating catlike grace in her black pantsuit and headset, and when her friend-slash-wedding-planner makes the mistake of brightly asking how it’s all coming along she looks up and announces, “So, the wedding’s off. Yeah. My fiancé finally realised how broken and terrible I am and remembered how he thinks the concept of being shackled to one person for eternity is stupid, probably, so we’re just going to give the whole thing a miss, I think.”

Valencia stares at her a moment before her mouth flattens into a tight, unimpressed line.

“ _No_ ,” she says, nostrils flaring. “No no no no  _no_. You are  _not_  doing this to me. You owe me. You owe me big time for that engagement party you totalled and you are walking down that aisle with someone this afternoon if it  _kills_  you.”

Paula shoots her a look at the poor choice of words and Valencia looks suitably vaguely regretful, but Rebecca isn’t paying attention, fixated instead on the open doorway Valencia has just vacated. Without warning she brings her pacing to an abrupt halt, kicks off her shoes and bolts, making an ungraceful beeline for the exit.

“No!” Valencia wails, already hot on Rebecca’s heels. “ _Rebecca!_  You get back here right this instant! I’ve already lost a groom and I am  _not_  letting you add runaway bride to my resume.”

“She’ll come back,” Paula says with a dismissive wave, rescuing the discarded veil from the floor before it can be destroyed, folding it and placing it carefully on the table. “I did.”

*

“Darryl,” he grunts in frustration, attempting to swat away the older man’s hands from his neck. “I know how to—”

Nathaniel gives up, letting his arms drop to his sides and heaving a sigh as Darryl fumbles with the blue silk, tip of his tongue poking out of the side of his moustached mouth as his eyes twist heavenward, ostensibly in an attempt to apply the action to the alternate point of view.

“You know, I’m not used to tying a tie on another person, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it figured out.” He steps back to admire his handiwork and his shoulders slump a little in resignation at the result. “You know what—I’ve shown you the general gist, now you can try for yourself.”

Clearing his throat lightly, Nathaniel tries for his best exasperated look as he undoes the whole thing and steps closer to the mirror, adjusting the lengths and completing the new knot with ease. He feels a tremor travel the length of his hand as he gives the final tug, though, and holds it out in front of him as if to glare the shake into submission; he flicks from the wrist, shooing the nervous energy away and curling his fingers into a fist to hold them steady.

He’s not nervous. He’s not. His hands definitely aren’t shaking and the fluttering feeling in his stomach is just some light indigestion, is all. He should have known better than to have such a sizeable breakfast on such an important day, when there’s going to be drinking and a sit down meal and Rebecca force feeding him cake, probably. He really should have more thoroughly thought this through.

“It’s perfectly normal to be scared,” Darryl says from behind him. “On my wedding day, I—”

“I’m not scared,” he scoffs, cutting him off, dropping his hand and rolling his shoulders indignantly. “I never said that.”

Darryl’s answering hum is skeptical.

“Plimptons don’t feel fear, actually. It’s an evolutionary advantage.”

“Okay,” Darryl agrees.

“And if I was… feeling… something,” Nathaniel barrels on after a moment, emphatic, “which I’m  _not_ —it wouldn’t be ‘scared’. ‘The minimal amount of concern’, maybe. ‘Mild apprehension’, at a stretch.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Like I said, Darryl, there’s nothing to talk about.”

Busying himself with putting on his cufflinks, he keeps his back turned, hoping it will buy him some silence. There’s no such luck, though, and despite his stubbornly averted eyes he can’t miss Darryl’s reflection hovering over his shoulder in his periphery.

“I’m just saying. If you were feeling a little jittery,” Darryl says, leaning conspiratorially closer, “that’s to be expected. Nothing? No issues with temperature control in your extremities, hmm? No… smattering of a chill in your soles? No twinkling of ice in your toes?”

“No.”

“Because if you were, the best thing is to just talk it through.”

“Darryl, I distinctly recall your marriage ended in divorce, so I’m reasonably sure you’re the last person that should be doling out unsolicited relationship advice.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, twisting his head down to stare at where he’s toying with his shirt sleeves so he doesn’t have to see the hurt look spread on Darryl’s face.

He sighs. “That wasn’t fair. I apologise. I… didn’t mean that.”

“You’re not wrong,” Darryl says, shrugging, his features so gut-wrenchingly reminiscent of a kicked puppy Nathaniel can’t stand it.

“I shouldn’t have said it.” He pauses. “I know you and Josh parted ways because you wanted different things from life and I… think that’s admirable,” he says with only a small amount of difficulty, clearing his throat. “The way you dealt with it, I mean. So there you go. Honestly, before you two broke up, you had the kind of relationship I never thought I’d have for myself. Or even want for myself.”

The puppy look doesn’t go away—the Whijo mention probably didn’t help, in retrospect—but Darryl holds both hands over his heart and grimaces in a way he thinks is supposed to be a touched smile.

“That’s so sweet,” Darryl says. “Oh, and I’m so glad you found that with Rebecca. You deserve it.”

Nathaniel can’t help it when his eyebrows climb his forehead because he realises with an alarming jolt that Darryl’s just managed to pinpoint precisely the thing he’s having a hard time making himself believe.

“God, I don’t know how to do this,” he blurts out, fists forming in frustration at his sides. “Not remotely. Monogamy: stupid. Commitment: boring. I’ve spent my entire life telling myself that. I’ve spent multiple occasions telling  _Rebecca_ that. To her face. How the hell did either one of us think this was a good idea?”

Darryl’s in front of him and gripping the edges of his jacket before he can blink, jabbing a thick, ringed finger right in his face.

“Hey, you stop that,” he says, sterner than Nathaniel’s ever heard him speak the entire time he’s known him. “That’s the fear talking, and if it doesn’t have anything constructive to say, you tell it nobody wants to hear it, okay?”

Too taken aback to demand his own release, Nathaniel blinks, not for the first time glaringly aware that despite all the cheerleading, the odd collection of acquaintances he supposes he should call his friends are for the most part very firmly Team Rebecca, should it ever come down to it. For some reason it doesn’t bother him all that much, though—on the contrary it leaves him almost kind of warm.

He doesn’t need the reminder that the last time Rebecca tried this, everything went horribly, terribly wrong.

“Did you know bald eagles mate for life?” Darryl releases him and holds up his hands as if he’s pointing out the most logical thing in the world and just like that, the bumbling, earnest business partner Nathaniel is used to is back. “Hey, if a bird can do it, I’m pretty sure a smart young man like yourself can figure it out.”

“Ugh, is that why there’s one of those godawful gas station mascot looking statues on the gift table?” Nathaniel quips, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb and stepping back with an undignified shake of his shoulders to reclaim some personal space. “What the hell are we supposed to do with that? That’s not something you can un-ironically display in a home.”

“Actually, according to  _Feng Shui_ , if you display it facing to the East, it will bring prosperity and clarity into your abode,” Darryl says, sotto voce, then adds an afterthought, “I sprang for the all white one because I thought it looked classy.”

“Hmm,” Nathaniel offers in response, entirely noncommittal.

*

“Rebecca,  _no!_ I’ve already told you it’s bad luck, and I swear to God, if you let another one of my weddings end in disaster—”

There’s a scuffle in the doorway and after a few seconds of grunting the lithe barricade of black limbs is overpowered by white as Rebecca ducks under her friend’s arms to squeeze into the room, skirts condensing and puffing out on the other side like a giant marshmallow. When she spots Nathaniel the tension flows out of her, shoulders dropping on a relieved sigh.

“Oh, you’re here,” she breathes, brow furrowing. “Good. That’s good. I mean, of course you’re here. But I kind of just really needed to check, you know?”

It takes Nathaniel an embarrassing length of time to even begin to formulate a response, caught off guard by the sudden apparition of her in front of him, a radiant vision in ivory and isabelline. She smiles at him self-consciously as he continues to stare, taking his slack jaw as a sign of approval and biting down gently on her bottom lip.

“Hi,” she says softly.

He swallows and forces himself to speak. “Hi.”

Despite the obvious faux pas he’s secretly grateful she’s given him the opportunity to get this humiliating stupefied reaction out of the way sans audience, all too cognizant of how idiotic he probably looks right now, gaping at the sight of her in her gown, dark hair all in perfectly arranged soft curls around her face. She looks angelic—definitely not a word anyone would generally use to describe Rebecca, even on a good day—but then she’s smiling at him, impish, and she’s recognisable again and not at all responsible for the way in which his lungs seem suddenly unable to draw in enough air.

“You look nice,” is what he eventually manages, immediately feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment, keenly aware of how woefully inadequate his utterance is and letting his eyes flicker shut in shame only to be surprised by a peal of delighted laughter bursting forth from Rebecca like bells.

He smiles back at her, and there’s an answering impatient groan from the doorway.

“So I gotta go before Valencia murders me with her bare hands,” Rebecca says, pitching forward and grabbing fistfuls of fabric to hitch up her dress. “But meet me outside in maybe like, ten minutes?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Okay. I’ll be waiting. It’s a date.”

She turns to Darryl, who has his entire fist shoved up against his mouth, already a mere few sobs away from being a complete blubbering mess.

“Darryl,” she says patiently. “When I asked you to give me away we agreed you would save the crying until  _after_ the ceremony.”

“I can’t help it,” he wails, fanning his face. “I just love you guys like my own children. Only in a non-weird, non-incestuous way where it’s not inappropriate for you to be marrying each other because  _oh,_  that is just my favourite thing!”

Nathaniel makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Can you take him with you? Please? So I can finish getting ready in peace?”

“Yes,  _please_ ,” Valencia begs in frustration. “I need both of you downstairs, like, two minutes ago. We’re on a tight schedule here, people.”

Darryl dutifully makes an effort to compose himself and follows the two women from the room, pausing briefly to rest his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder as he passes.

“You’re going to do great, Nathaniel,” he says quietly, encouragingly. “I can tell. So don’t worry about a thing.”

“I don’t—” Nathaniel clears his throat again, shrugging off the comforting hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Before Darryl can leave, though, he drops the pretence with a pained sigh. “Thank you, Darryl. For everything. I really mean that.”

Darryl mimes a zipping motion across his lips, a heartfelt press of his trembling fist to his chest that is entirely too dramatic for Nathaniel’s tastes his parting offering as he slips out the door.

Finally alone, Nathaniel turns back to the mirror to slide his fingers through his hair, smooth his tie, straighten his lapels one last nauseating time, only to be startled by Valencia’s incensed growl echoing down the hallway as the empty space around his reflection floods with a renewed flurry of white.

“Look, I know I’m breaking, like, every imaginable rule right now, but I just—”

Rebecca doesn’t even bother finishing her sentence before she’s yanking him down to her by his neck and sealing her mouth firmly, determinedly, desperately over his. By the time he’s pulled himself sufficiently together to respond, his hands hovering hesitantly over the lace at her waist she’s already drawing back, breathless, her eyes fluttering shut in contentment.

“Okay. That was all. Valencia’s about one burst blood vessel away from an aneurysm, so—I love you, and I will see you soon.”

And just like that she’s gone again, as quickly as she reappeared; leaving him dazed and dumbstruck as per usual and taking any traces of bothersome butterflies with her.

Suddenly, he’s never felt more sure in his life.


	3. things you said when you thought I was asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'things you said when you thought I was asleep'.

“I’m never letting you pick the movie again.”

Rebecca reaches over the side of the bed to dump the bowl on the floor having finally succeeded polishing off the last of popcorn; she casts an unimpressed glare in the direction of her unresponsive bedmate as she licks the residue salt off her fingers and snuggles back down into the blankets.

She attempts force her attention back to the computer screen—she did  _promise_ , after all, and to his credit he’s made it through every Barbra Streisand film she’s thrown at him—but it’s just—

“Ugh, gross,” she fake gags, rolling her eyes for approximately the thirtieth time.

The grating rumble of fighter jets fills the apartment again and she pulls a face that’s part disgust, part unbridled disinterest.

“ _God_ , this movie is awful. Trust you to pick the worst thing imaginable to watch and then leave me to suffer through it all on my own.”

Suddenly the stretch of stationary muscle beside her surges to life, taking her by surprise when she finds herself unexpectedly enveloped in its familiar warmth. “Woman, you take that  _back_ ,” Nathaniel practically growls, voice low and rough with sleep, rolling her beneath him and pushing up onto his elbows, bleary eyed and enticingly tousled, the crest of his hair jutting out adorably at odd angles.

“Oh,” she exhales, flinging an arm out to save the jostled laptop, pressing it closed and pushing it down the bed out of the way. “Hello, sailor. You’re awake.”

He hums, nosing his way down her jaw and into the curve of her throat.

“I was yanked from peaceful slumber by the sound of someone saying hurtful things about my favourite film.”

“Your taste in movies, much like your taste in television, is objectively terrible,” she says, hands sliding up to cup the back of his neck. “I can’t help it. I’ve got to call it like it is.”

“Bold words from a girl that watches an ABBA musical every other weekend.”

She slaps him playfully on the back. “I can’t help it that I’m more cultured than you. Musicals are the medium of our time, and for the record,  _Mamma Mia_ is a seminal love story. It’s ABBA’s world, and we’re all just living in it. Besides,” she adds, quirking a brow and jabbing him pointedly in the chest, “if your dumb movie’s so great, how come you fell asleep?”

Nathaniel scoffs, sliding his eyes away from her. “How dare you.  _Top Gun_ is  _just_  as seminal a love story as  _Mamma Mia_ , if not more.  _And_ a musical,” he counters proudly.

She barks out a mocking laugh. “Uh, it most certainly is not.  _Top Gun_ is many things—a gross example of Cold War propaganda and hyper-masculine homoeroticism at its finest, for starters—but it is definitely  _not_  a musical.”

“Were you not paying attention when an entire bar sang  _You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling?_ ” He points over to the laptop. “Do we need to watch it again from the beginning?”

“Ohh, is that what was happening? I’m sorry—I was distracted by the fellow woman that was being surrounded and harassed by a bunch of egotistical men that are only interested in her for a bet, but I can definitely see how that approach would strike a chord for you.”

“One man,” he corrects. “The others just join in for fun. And it starts out as for a bet, but then he—you know, you should really just watch it,” he says. “It’s a lot more nuanced than that.”

“Uh-huh.”

Apparently only enamoured and amused with her skepticism, he trails his hand up her side, making her squirm, and combs her hair out from where it’s caught between her shoulder and the pillow.

“I would have thought serenading would be exactly your brand of seduction,” he murmurs, dipping back down towards her and skimming his fingers across her collarbone, the soft skin of his mouth grazing the edge of her jaw. “Little Miss  _Music Man_.”

What she definitely isn’t expecting is for him to start crooning lowly into her ear, every gravelled note vibrating right through her and summoning a thousand betraying goosebumps to attention down her arms and all across the back of her neck.

“ _You never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips_.”

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Seriously?”

_“And there’s no tenderness like before in your fingertips.”_

His tone is a little uneven with self consciousness and laughter but he isn’t half bad, and Rebecca hates that he’s right—this is  _precisely_ her brand of seduction.

_“You’re trying hard not to show it…”_

“Stop,” she says, her delighted laugh belying her protest as she tries to tug his face back up to hers.

_“But baby…”_  He bumps his nose against hers and she’s grasping at him, pulling him down to her until he’s mumbling the rest of it against her mouth.  _“Baby, you know it—”_

Caving to her demands he finally kisses her properly, slow and languid and more tenderness than heat but Rebecca has other ideas, her knees already squeezing insistently at his sides.

“ _God_ , I resent how much this is turning me on right now.”

He pushes back up onto his arms to regard her, the fingers of one hand curling back into her hair, his expression entirely too smug and she loves this, loves how unguarded and silly he can be when it’s just the two of them but it doesn’t stop the ever-present urge she has to wring the arrogant twist out of the tempting line of his mouth.

She rakes her eyes over him as he remains poised above her, definitely not imagining him shirtless on a beach somewhere playing volleyball, sweat-slick muscles rippling distractingly in the sun. She’s seen that stupid photo of him playing water polo he keeps up in his office—it’s not that much of a stretch, and the mental image undeniably benefits from the lack of bonnet.

“Hey,” she says, dragging her toe wantonly up the back of his calf. “So, uh, what’s your callsign? Are you a Maverick? An Iceman? More of a Goose?”

He grins, slanting his hips down into hers and revelling in the stretch of seconds where her breath hitches and eyelids flutter shut in response.

“Tonight you,” he begins, eyebrows creeping up his forehead and the smirk already fully blown, “can call me Captain.”

And despite her earlier goading, she’s all too happy to play along.


	4. senseless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'senseless'.

Heather swings the front door open and surveys the person standing in front of her with a tilted head.

“Hey roomie, time to pull yourself out of your cough syrup induced coma,” she calls over her shoulder. “Your asshole boss is here to deny your request for sick leave in person, or something.”

“I brought soup,” Nathaniel offers, but Heather just gives him a pitying wince in response.

“Oh, she doesn’t eat soup. Yeah. She has some strong opinions on it. She says she can’t trust something that can’t decide if it’s, like, a liquid or a solid.”

“Soup?” a husky, hopeful voice interrupts from the direction of the living room. “You brought me soup?”

His eyes shift towards the sound to find Rebecca clawing her way up the back of the couch to peer at him. His stomach definitely doesn’t drop a little at how pitiful she looks.

“Dude, you don’t even li—”

“I never said that,” Rebecca says hastily, frowning. “I never said that. I  _said_ , I have conflicted feelings about—you know what, it doesn’t matter,” she concedes, eyes fluttering shut when she shakes her head a little too sharply. “I love my sympathy soup. You can pry it out of my cold, dead hands when this flu is done with me. Give it to me.”

She makes a grabby motion at the container and Nathaniel walks over and passes it to her obediently, raising his eyebrows when she immediately presses it to her forehead.

“Oh, yeah—that’s good,” she moans, sinking back into the cushions.

“She’s somehow even more dramatic and self-pitying than usual when she’s sick,” Heather explains.

“I’ve lost my  _joie de vivre_ ,” Rebecca laments with a questionable French accent from beneath the plastic. “I can’t taste anything. I can’t smell anything. My ears are about as blocked as my nose so I can barely hear anything. My eyes are all sore and scratchy so they’re basically a write-off too. My entire body is aching. I’m like a senseless ball of pain.” She pauses, brow furrowing. “Is that an oxymoron? Eh, sounds good.”

Heather raises her eyebrows, then turns to Nathaniel.

“Cool. So—she’s all yours,” she says, grabbing her purse from the kitchen counter and slinging it over her shoulder. “Babysitting’s been a blast, but it can be your turn to tag in now.”

“I should really be getting back to the office,” he protests, gesturing to the door.

“Please remind her that her disease-ridden tissues belong in the bin, because she likes to toss them on the floor when you’re not looking, and it’s super gross,” Heather says, ignoring him. “Maybe keep your shoes on, just in case. Anyway, peace out.”

The door shuts behind her before he can get another word in, and he stands there dumbly for a moment before sliding his gaze back to Rebecca, eyeing him miserably from the couch.

He sighs and sheds his jacket, smoothing it out over the back of a chair before walking around to drop down beside her sweaty tangle of blankets. He presses the back of his hand to her forehead and frowns; there’s a hint of coolness from where she’s held the refrigerated container against it but beneath it he can feel the latent heat, searing against his knuckles.

“Wow. You are… really burning up, huh?”

She lifts her makeshift compress to crack an eyelid at him.

“Are you saying you think I’m hot?”

He stares at her, taking the time to carefully drink in her puffy red eyes, her clammy sallow skin and—the icing on an already incredibly enticing cake—the two balled up shreds of tissue she’s dutifully stuffed up her snotty nose, presumably to stop the drips.

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvincingly. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Stop trying to seduce me when I’m sick,” she mumbles, her free hand coming up to fist pathetically in the front of his shirt. “Watch some awful daytime TV with me?”

He hesitates. He wasn’t raised to believe in sick days. And as for leaving work on his lunch break to check on someone else supposedly incapacitated—well. His father would probably have a few choice words to say about that. Maybe he is going soft.

“What, you afraid of a little germs?” Rebecca asks sulkily, voice scratchy.

“No,” he says, defensively. “My immune system is basically an impenetrable fortress. Unlike you, I’ve eaten a vegetable once or twice in my life. Move over, then.”

She pushes herself up onto her elbows so he can slide back to settle into the corner of the couch, opening his arms to her once he’s propped up comfortably. She hums in approval as she pitches forward to curl contentedly into his lap, his fingers threading into her hair to scratch soothingly at her sore scalp.

He notices the container she’s discarded on the floor in front of them just as his own eyes are threatening to flicker shut.

“I should’ve put that in the fridge first,” he says, stubbornly swallowing down a yawn.

“It’s fine,” she mumbles, shifting, rubbing her cheek affectionately against the flat of his thighs. “I’m not going to eat it anyway. Heather knows how I feel about soup.”


	5. don't leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'don't leave'. An alternative to 3x12.

“Don’t leave.”

“Excuse me?”

She pushes past him into his apartment, wondering where this rush of courage was a few months ago. Her breath vacates her in a heavy gust when she drinks in all the boxes—the books, the trophies, everything gone. There’s a familiar sensation of knowing something without really  _knowing_ it until now, and Nathaniel’s apartment is no longer his but an expanse of terrible grey.

“Rebecca—”

“I know I have no right to say it but I’m saying it.” Her eyes are wide and her voice is shaking and she’s not entirely sure why she’s come because nothing’s changed. But still—she has to say  _something._ “I don’t want you to go.”

His lips part, and he’s wearing the expression she’s been all too good at drawing out of him lately; equal parts tenderness and torment, and he can’t quite meet her eyes.

“Rebecca, what are you saying here, exactly?”

For eight heady months she’d been stuck in the relationship equivalent of Schrödinger’s cat; she’d had him but hadn’t been able to  _have_  him, and as fucked up as all that had been she still can’t bring herself to want to take it back. It’s done, now, though—the cat’s out of the bag/box, it’s dead, it’s done with and that was entirely on her. She did all of this, she led them here. She took back the firm, took back her unhealed heart with heavy hands and with it whatever promise they’d been building between them. She can’t blame him for feeling like he’s been left with nothing.

“Not what you want,” she admits with a forlorn shrug. “I can’t… I can’t give you a reason. I still can’t be the reason. So I know this isn’t fair, and it isn’t okay, but… I am a selfish person, and I am here to say selfish things. So there.”

He lets out a soft sigh, his tongue pressing against his lips from the inside, his mouth drawn in a solemn line. Her eyebrows climb her forehead in quiet desperation when he still doesn’t speak.

“I came here to say don’t leave because I can’t say the alternative,” she says, dropping to nearly a whisper, voice breaking. “God, Nathaniel. Please don’t make me say goodbye.”

Apparently that’s what it takes for him to finally look at her; when his gaze connects with hers he still seems sad but sort of angry, too, and she takes a half step back when he first moves towards her but then she’s switching gears and pressing into him with the same frantic energy, pushing herself up on her toes to get at him, to hang on to every last part of him that’s slipping through her fingers, fast.

He breaks the kiss to stare at her, mouth open like he’s going to say something, like always, like he needs to make certain and be sure. She shakes her head before he can speak.

“I know,” she implores. “I know, but I don’t care.”

It feels like they’re moving underwater, heavy and fluid and slow, lips only disengaging for the reluctant seconds required to pull shirts over heads, first his and then hers until there’s nothing but skin and the sweet tangle of sheets. She tastes salt and can’t tell if the tears are her own but it doesn’t matter for the moment, not while he’s still everywhere, over her and around her and inside her, consuming her, enveloping her, swallowing her whole.

 _Don’t leave_ , he wants to say to her,  _after,_  but knows he can’t, not when he’s the one now that needs so desperately to walk away. He pays her the final kindness of a ruse; he keeps his eyes shut, breathing even, sees her pausing to look back at him only in his imagination and when he hears the click of the door closing behind her as she goes he twists back on the pillows, pads out his heart and tucks it away like all the other inconsequential things he’s ever had to put in boxes.


	6. crave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'crave'.

Nathaniel’s never been much of an eater.

Food has always kind of been a means to an end for him—his system requires sustenance in order to function, and he’s always prided himself on ensuring that only the best fuel gets pumped into the well-oiled machine that is his body. Nutrition, much like business, can be broken down into numbers; calories are a calculation, and keeping count means keeping control. Taste is secondary—life isn’t about the things you like, not if you want to get anywhere. It’s about discipline and sacrifice, and constantly striving for success. Once you stop improving, you start losing.

He doesn’t feel normal when he’s packing a few extra pounds. But nothing about the way he’s been feeling since Rebecca Bunch breezed into his life like a lackadaisical leaf carried along on the Santa Ana whirlwinds has been normal.

He knows what the numbers say, since he’s been trading protein shakes for picking restaurants and Rebecca in a floral dress; since he’s had to stop wearing his tracker because it’s become increasingly impossible to completely avoid carbs between the Chinese, the Vietnamese, the Indian and the Thai. The numbers never lie and they say he’s trending heavier but the truth is, amongst all the fervour and new flavours, Nathaniel’s never felt lighter in his life.

He wouldn’t touch a donut with a ten foot pole but he knows what powdered sugar tastes like when it’s caught on the corner of Rebecca’s mouth, sickeningly sweet all on its own but made sweeter by the alluring lilt of her laugh. He’s felt the secondhand sting of salt, both from the pretzel she had before bed but also her tears, as they’ve moved together in the dark, murmuring, exchanging pieces of themselves and consuming them, consuming each other.

He’s not completely oblivious—he knows it’s the company he’s craving, not the food. The desire to consume meals laid out in solid physicality on his stoneware rather than liquified from the ingredients’ purest parts isn’t out of consideration of nutritional value, but the conversation he’s grown accustomed to accompanying it; he’s gotten unnervingly used to staring down the excessive length of his table at something else other than the austere walls of his apartment, to being soothed by sounds other than silence. Rebecca brought colour into his corporate greyscale existence, teased his tastebuds into consciousness and awakened a whole new world of wanting in him that he can’t fucking figure out how to turn off.

Coffee and creamer is the tentative touch of her hand, sliced apples the scent of her shampoo that still lingers lazily on his sheets. Saffron and paprika, the paella she spilled on her shirt and all that came after as she’d slipped herself out of it, laughing and unabashed. Wine, hot and heady on her breath as she arched beautifully beneath him, pliant and warm beneath the feverish press of his fingertips.

The sensation had been sweet while it lasted but the aftertaste is nothing but bitter, burning him up from the inside out and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He’s never had to deal with an appetite.


	7. help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'help'. Probably pushing the boundaries of what could be considered r/n but it does involve them, so. Set during 3x13.

He startles when he feels her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently in an offer of comfort.

Between the police and the paramedics and everything else in between they’ve barely had a chance to talk in all of this, kept separate while he answered questions and she dutifully took care of damage control, ever the perfect hostess. He’s been sitting numbly in a chair in the corner for a few minutes now, his mind somewhere else entirely, but Mona’s touch reignites him, spurs him into action.

He rises suddenly to his feet.

“I have to go,” he says.

“What? Where?”

“Down to the station. I have to see Rebecca.”

She follows after him as he makes his way across the terrace, her arms folding across her chest.

“ _What?_  You’re not going anywhere.”

“You don’t understand. She’s in trouble—”

“ _Trouble?_ Nat, that woman just pushed the caterer off the roof. She’s crazy. What was she even doing here?”

“She’s not crazy,” he snaps, stopping, softening guiltily at the way Mona takes a half-step back, brows raised. “She’s not—well, she is kind of crazy. But crazy is a derogatory term, and it’s a lot more nuanced than that.”

He steps around her, still making for the exit.

_“Nathaniel.”_

He flinches. She’s called him by his full name three, maybe four times in the months they’ve spent together.

“Not to be melodramatic—but if you walk out those doors right now, I might not be here when you get back.”

He pauses at that, bewildered. When he turns back to her it’s with hands raised, attempting to placate her.

“Listen, I know Rebecca is kind of a touchy subject between us. I get it. I do. But she just got arrested, and I owe it to her—”

“You don’t owe her anything,” Mona interrupts, incredulous. “You know who you do owe—your girlfriend, whom you cheated on for  _months_ , and she barely said a word. The girlfriend that’s moving in with you, that just planned this incredible party that was just  _ruined_ by the woman you were sleeping with behind her back showing up and almost  _murdering_  a man.”

“Mona, as far as I know, Rebecca just saved my life, and she needs my help.”

“Saved your life? From a  _waiter_? Are you listening to yourself?”

“Yes, and I know how it sounds but there was something off about that guy, and he had a knife, and Rebecca wouldn’t…” He trails off, because to say Rebecca wouldn’t lie would be a lie in of itself. It doesn’t matter, though—he’d seen the terror and despair on her face in the seconds before she’d pushed Trent. Whatever her story, Rebecca most certainly believed it. “I believe her,” he says simply.

For a long time she only looks at him, searching his face. Whatever it is she’s searching for her thinks she just might have found it—her shoulders tensing, mouth flattening into a firm, straight line.

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you have to go? Why you? Why not Tim or Joey or that tiny girl with the glasses or literally anybody else? Why is it so important  _you_  go?”

He stares at her, lips parted, helpless.

He can’t give her an answer, and he knows just as well as she does that it’s an answer in itself.

“You know, I told myself I could deal with you sleeping with someone else. Told myself I could be the cool girl. If that’s all it was. But you actually love her.” Mona stares him down, chin jutted defiantly up at him and when he doesn’t deny it she rolls her eyes away, blinking back moisture. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.”

He lets out a heavy breath, reaching for her.

“Mona—”

“Don’t touch me.”

She recoils away from him and he takes the hint, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Just so you know,” she says, not meeting his eyes, “there were some possible right answers you could have gone with there. ‘She’s the senior partner of my firm’, for one.”

“I wanted it to be you,” he says, honestly. “I did. I tried.”

She raises her palm and he tenses, knowing he deserves it but the slap never comes—Mona clenches her hand into a shaky fist and lowers it, still not able to bring herself to cause the scene she so desperately wants to.

“Fuck you,” she whispers. “You made a fool of me. Twice. And I guess that’s on me for not walking away when I should have but don’t you  _dare_  make yourself feel better telling yourself that you  _tried_.”

He tilts his head back at that, hands shoved hopelessly in his pockets as he wonders how the hell he let this whole thing come so far.

“Just go, Nathaniel,” Mona says flatly. “Go to her. I guess I’ll… deal with the mess left here.”

She wraps her arms around herself, gaze firmly on her feet, waiting for him to walk away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wearily, scrubbing his hand across his brow. “I really am.”

“Yeah,” she retorts, tone venomous and bitter, finally looking up at him. “Me too. Sorry I let you waste my time.”

He turns to look at her before he goes—her calm and collected mask already smoothed back in place as she rotates her attention between the few remaining guests—and allows himself the moment of self-indulgent self-loathing before his thoughts turn guiltily, infuriatingly, consumingly back to Rebecca.


	8. five times rebecca got that harry potter reference (and one time she didn't)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'five times rebecca got that reference'.

**1.**

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask. This apartment is kinda small, yet you seem to have a series of large pieces of furniture and equipment on rotation that I don’t understand how you store.”

Rebecca’s staring bemusedly at the rowing machine planted obstructively in front of Nathaniel’s sofa. Last time she was here it had been the longest table for two she’s ever seen in her life but she doesn’t bother wondering what they’re going to do for dinner, not yet. If she’s perfectly honest she’s having a hard enough time focusing on the conversation she just started when he’s standing in front of her like that, sweaty and shirtless and muscles rippling when he moves.

“What was the question?” he teases.

“Dude, seriously. One day you’re a five star restaurant, the next you’re a gym. Where does this stuff come from? Where does it go? Do you have, like, a Mary Poppins bag in your closet that I don’t know about?”

“I like to think of it as more of a Room of Requirement,” he says, smirking down at her. At her ongoing raised eyebrows he elaborates, “Storage space. The building has storage space. I pay a little extra. You know how I feel about clutter.”

It’s true—she does.

“Well that makes sense, I suppose. Although a Room of Requirement does sound very handy. Follow-up question—who moves said equipment in and out when you feel like a change?”

“House elves?” he offers. “Definitely house elves.”

“Hmm. You know, I’m pretty sure the house elves had a different name for the Room of Requirement,” she murmurs, stepping closer.

“Really,” he says, slinging his towel around his neck and mirroring her movement until they’re all but pressed up against each other. “You’ll have to enlighten me. I don’t recall.”

“Uh-huh. The Come-and-Go Room,” she explains, and the complete and utter shamelessness with which she stares him down and delivers the innuendo makes his toes curl.

“Just to clarify,” he begins, because he knows he can be obtuse sometimes, “you want to see my storage room. So that we can have sex in it.”

Rebecca blinks at him.

“Wow. Actually, no. I was just trying to decide if there was a safe way for us to fuck on the rowing machine, but that kind of seemed like an accident waiting to happen so your idea sounds way better. Count me in.”

Luckily, the table’s as sturdy as it is long.

 

**2.**

Things are getting heated during an impromptu make-out session on his bed when he says it; Rebecca’s sprawled out enticingly beneath him on top of the covers, hair adorably tousled and cheeks charmingly flushed as her knees squeeze together with wanting at his sides. They’re still fully clothed at this point but he’s definitely starting to have other plans, hands smoothing down her hips and slipping under the edge of her bunched-up skirt to press tantalisingly at her thighs.

It takes her a hazy moment to register his comment but when she does she pushes back at him with a hand on his chest, smothering a laugh.

“Hang on a second. I’m sorry, did you… did you just refer to my vagina as the Sorting Hat?”

Nathaniel ducks his head with an abashed huff. Maybe a week into a relationship—if that’s even what they’re doing here, he’s still not entirely sure—is a little early to be making things weird.

“I think so? Was that too much? It kind of just… came out. I can dial it back a little.”

“No,” Rebecca says, eyes widening as she arches against him. “No, that’s… strangely kind of doing it for me. Keep going. What else you got?”

He lifts his head to look at her better, searching her eyes to make sure she’s serious before resuming the languid slanting of his hips against hers.

“Yeah? I mean there’s the classics. You know, let me open your Chamber of Secrets. So I can…  _Slyther-in_.”

He dips closer to her ear and drops his voice on the last word, his tone low and silky in a way that prickles hot along her skin and peppers goosebumps standing to attention along her forearms.

“Oh, yeah—that’s a good one,” she agrees, somewhat breathlessly. Her fingers thread through his hair, expression turning mischievous as she pushes purposefully down on his head. “But I hope you know Parseltongue, because I gotta warn you—this time there’s an entrance fee.”

He groans as he slides willingly down the mattress, taking her underwear with him, more than happy to pay the toll.  

 

**3.**

Nathaniel’s cautious when he follows her into her bedroom, still stunned into silence from the intensity of her most recent outburst. He’s keenly aware that he’s somehow failed to give her something she wants—not for the first time and probably not for the last—and the tidal wave of nauseous inadequacy roils hard in his stomach.

Sometimes he thinks she feels things strongly enough for the both of them, but that’s not how this is supposed to work.

She’s curled up in a determined ball beneath the covers, back to the doorway and him by extension, and he thinks her anger might have dissipated by now but he keeps his movements tentative as he takes off his tie, watch and belt before sliding up the bed behind her. She tenses when he tucks his chin into her neck but then her breath leaves her in a heavy sigh and she relaxes somewhat, shoulders slumping against him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I have the emotional range of a teaspoon,” he murmurs in her ear, smoothing her hair back, and Rebecca can’t help it, she fucking  _melts._

“Oh god,” she sniffs, shaking her head. “No. Nope. Uh-uh. There’s no way that just worked on me.”

She twists in the sheets until she’s facing him, eyes wide and damp. There’s no smugness in his expression, though—only chagrin and sincerity—and she brings her hand up to her face to chew on her thumb nail.

“I’m sorry I exploded,” she says quietly. “Maybe we can call it even.”

If he’s a teaspoon then Rebecca’s a ladle, a saucepan, a bowl. A mess of a melting pot, of endless conflicting emotions in constant danger of bubbling over, but he’d like to think he’s learning how to help her keep it at a simmer, even if he doesn’t always succeed.

 

**4.**

Rebecca can’t help but shut her eyes and smile at the sound of the supply closet door closing behind her, taking a deep breath before she turns to find Nathaniel studying her, an infuriating smirk already twitching on his lips.

“Hey,” she says lightly.

“Hey.”

They’ve done this enough times now that they crash together like clockwork; her arms around his neck, forcing him down towards her as he tugs her blouse free from her waistband. She wonders absently if this is ever going to start feeling like a broken record because it surprisingly hasn’t yet, her mouth still determinedly drawn to his, limbs still listless to tangle and intertwine.

He looks like a deviant school boy—blue eyes blown wide, hair mussed, cheeks ruddy, white collar rumpled and tie twisted off to the side—and she tells him as much, tells him how he looks like he’s asking for trouble as she trembles at the touch of his fingers sliding beneath her shirt at bare skin.

He pauses, quirking a brow, voice low and searing right through her, like lava.

“Oh, I solemnly swear—I am up to no good,” he mutters, jutting his chin, looking down through hooded eyes at her and  _god,_ she hates it sometimes but  _damn_ if that doesn’t do it for her.

She shoves him roughly down onto some boxes, impatient, hiking her skirt up to straddle him.

“Is that a wand in your robes, Mr Plimpton, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Oh, c’mon—I know you can do better than that,” he goads with a teasing frown.

She narrows her eyes, rolling her hips and taking satisfaction in the way he swallows and digs his fingers into her flesh as she shifts against him. He tries to still her but she manages to override his grip on her thighs.

“Hmm,” she continues, feigning deep contemplation. “Let me see. Seven and a half inches.  _Sequoia_. Slightly springy. Excellent for charms.”

He laughs into her mouth as she leans forward to kiss him.

“Better.”

Her hands dip below his waistline to investigate, and their capacity for puns is for the most part lost there.

“This was the last time,” she says,  _after,_ still panting as she smooths down her skirt.

“The last time,” he echoes. “Mischief managed.”

“Mischief well and truly managed,” she agrees, hand hovering on the door handle as she waits for him to finish tucking in his shirt.

 

**5.**

Sometimes she doesn’t quite manage to catch herself quickly enough and suddenly she’s dreaming about timelines; about the endless alternate versions of herself from parallel universes, about any number of Rebeccas that could have stopped some point along the way and just fucking  _waited,_  and all the versions of him that would have happily waited with her.

And because each new iteration is still disastrously and inherently  _her,_ they make any number of the same mistakes in countless combinations but at the tail end of it it’s always still the two of them—drawn back together as hopelessly and as clumsily as moths, orbiting unquestioningly around each other’s light. She’s still not entirely convinced she deserves love yet but she can’t help but look at all their broken pieces and think maybe, just maybe, they’ve done enough that they deserve each other.

There’s a version that’s closer to her than all the others, that mirrors every meticulous mistake she’s ever made bar one.

“You honestly still want me?” she sniffs, disbelieving on his doorstep, self-deprecating self-awareness the price she’s had to pay for progress in all of this. “After everything?”

“Even after all this time,” he agrees, disarmingly earnest even as his eyes flicker down towards her mouth. “I meant what I said, Rebecca. It’s always been about you.  _Always_.”

She laughs, sobs and moans into his mouth at that, desperate and helpless and feeling too much but she doesn’t do it this time, doesn’t turn and run away, no matter how terrified that leaves her.

All she had to do was  _stay—_

There’s a knock at the door and she startles, room sharpening and shifting back into focus around her, forcing her back to reality with the painful clarity of an office that now belongs solely to her, shared only with the space where his desk once sat perfectly snug against hers.

 

**(+1)**

He knocks on the door gently.

“Rebecca? Are you okay in there?” He pauses for moment then adds, “Do you want your toothbrush?”

There’s a beat before the door swings open and she’s standing in front of him, eyes a little red and expression suspicious as she shifts back and forth on the soles of her feet.

“What? What do you mean, do I want my toothbrush?” She sniffs and scrubs the back of her hand across her nose. “That doesn’t even make sense. I was already in the bathroom. And why would I want my toothbrush, anyway? That’s stupid. You’re stupid.”

Nathaniel widens his eyes, ignoring her petulance.

“Did—did I just make a Harry Potter reference you didn’t get? Did I just out-master the master?”

“What? No,” Rebecca says quickly, scowling.

“I definitely did. You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

He watches as her gaze slides away from his as she turns his words over in her head, scrambling to make sense of him and prove him wrong. He thinks it might be vaguely ringing a bell for her but she’s not entirely sure, and he feels an odd mix of arrogance and relief at the fact that in her confusion she no longer seems as upset as she did before.

They’re still working it out, this thing that they’re doing—Mona’s moved on and out of his life but she still hangs heavy between them sometimes, the evidence of eight months plus spent trying to get Rebecca out of his head and his heart still achingly apparent, his apartment like an archaeological dig site of the mould he’d tried so unsuccessfully to fit his life in to. It had been easy enough when they were measuring out their moments in the supply closet; back then she’d been making excuses about stationery, not stumbling across the remnants of another woman’s toiletries in his medicine cabinet or noticing the ways his morning routine had changed to factor in another person.

“That was barely a reference,” Rebecca says eventually, tone still sulky. “It doesn’t count. Your allusion was not fully realised and therefore did not make sense given the context.”

“Oh, I am  _good_ ,” he self-congratulates, rolling his shoulders, determined to lighten the mood.

He moves away from her towards the couch and is thankful when she begrudgingly follows, slipping her hand back inside the bathroom to switch off the light before she joins him. She keeps her distance, back against the opposite arm, but after a minute or so she sighs and swings her feet up, sliding them unceremoniously into his lap.

“So you got me,” she says flatly. “Why the toothbrush line?”

“Hermione’s parents are dentists,” he says, shrugging. “I always just kind of inferred it as a comfort thing. Like she brushes her teeth when she’s upset, and thought Harry might want to do the same.”

Rebecca stares at him, brows raised, for a moment—this ridiculous sentimental  _nerd_ sitting across from her, masquerading as a no-nonsense lawyer.

“Well, who needs dental hygiene to cheer them up when they’ve got you and your literary insights, huh?” she settles on eventually.

He thinks they might just be able to pull this whole damn mess of a thing off. He’s getting better at talking her down.


	9. five times nathaniel was an overly anxious pet owner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'five times nathaniel was an overly anxious pet owner'. And in case anybody was interested, [some visual aids.](http://notbang.tumblr.com/post/172825522054/please-accept-these-self-indulgent-doodles-of)

**1.**

“So who gets the dog if you two break up?”

Nathaniel freezes in the middle of knotting the leash to the leg of the park bench.

“Huh?”

“I’m just saying, bro,” WhiJo continues with a casual shrug. “With you and Rebecca—most people I know and Rebecca, actually—you gotta admit the relationship’s been kind of volatile. Who gets this little guy in the divorce if things go south?”

Nathaniel gives the leash a final tug to make sure it’s secure before straightening up and leaning into the wooden backrest, frowning, shoulders tense. He’s definitely not a fan of the way the question tugs tight in his chest and settles heavily and uneasily in his stomach and WhiJo barrels on, oblivious.

“Look, man. I know you probably don’t want to think about that right now, but it is something to consider. It’s pretty much a no brainer, though—it has to be you. Obviously. I mean, Rebecca’s probably the last person that should be allowed to be responsible for an animal’s welfare, right?” WhiJo snorts, and Nathaniel dutifully laughs along, even as the knot in his stomach squeezes tighter.

“I mean, I think she’ll be fine,” he says eventually in her defence, shaking his head. “She’s not… Rebecca tends to throw herself into things, is what I’m saying. She’s smart. She’s loving. She’s effusive.”

“Yeah,” WhiJo agrees on a reluctant sigh, drawing out the vowels, “but she’s still kind of a mess, man. Taking responsibility has never been her strong suit. And having a dog is a big responsibility.”

Nathaniel pulls a face, dismissive.

“Pff. It can’t be that hard.”

* * *

“Hey. What’s up?” Rebecca chirps when Nathaniel calls her from the car.

“Did you know dogs get worms? Like, actual worms? It’s not just a saying—what does that even mean? And you’re supposed to give them something for it—for the worms, and for their heart, and to stop the fleas.  _Fleas_ , Rebecca! And you’re supposed to take them to get some kind of chip planted in them? What’s that about? Is that  _safe?_  What is this, nineteen eighty-four? Is the government trying to spy on us through our  _dog,_ now?”

“Okay, maybe ease up on the conspiracy theories there, buddy,” comes the retort through the speaker. “You’ve never heard of microchipping before? It’s so if he gets lost they can tell exactly which irresponsible assholes lost him. Like, in case he loses his collar or something. And yes, I am vaguely aware of the worming thing, but we’re going to have to look into it more because I, just like you, am completely new to pet ownership.”

“How are you so calm about all this?”

“Why are you suddenly freaking out? Did something happen at the park? Did you lose him already? Oh god, you lost him, didn’t you? This is why they have microchips.”

“I didn’t lose him,” he insists, affronted, making eye contact with the canine in question in the rearview mirror as if to confirm. “I just… WhiJo made it all look so easy. His dog just sits next to him at the bar and drools a little. Our dog wriggles and whines and tries to pull off his leash. I didn’t realise there was going to be all this… stuff.”

“Well, for starters, Max is a hardened Mexican immigrant. He’s seen some things,” she quips. “Captain, on the other hand, is a puppy, Nathaniel—it’s my understanding that there’s still a few months of wriggling and whining and urinating on everything we own ahead of us.” She’s quiet for a moment before she asks, “What brought all this on? Did WhiJo say something? He did, didn’t he? Ugh, he’s always so judgy—I bet he thinks he’s better than us because we went to a breeder instead of adopting, but I have enough of my own issues, I sure as hell don’t need a crazy dog.”

“And that idea sounded good at the time but now I’m not sure this isn’t worse—all we did was get ourselves a blank slate, which means any way this dog gets fucked up is  _completely_  on us.”

There’s an awkward stretch of silence as Nathaniel slows into an intersection.

“…yep, well—thanks for that comforting thought,” Rebecca says eventually. “I’m already a bumbling ball of all-consuming anxiety, so what’s one more, right?”

He eases off the brakes and lets his gaze slide back to the mirror just in time to see the dog flop awkwardly forward from the change in momentum, adorably unsteady on his oversized puppy paws.

What the  _hell_  were either of them thinking?

**2.**

Nathaniel is not worried.

It’s not  _worry_  to entertain perfectly logical concern for the wellbeing of another living thing. It’s relatively new for him, sure, but still perfectly justified. Besides, if Rebecca’s not worried then he’s definitely not worried, and Rebecca has already insisted multiple times that everything is completely fine and he trusts that, he does.

Only somehow he’s grabbed his keys from his desk and he’s making his way to the elevator without thinking, but then he crosses paths with Rebecca who looks suspiciously like she’s headed in the same direction so he stops.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“Hmm? Oh, no. No. Not me. I mean, I was briefly considering going home for lunch, but then I realised that was probably a waste of an hour, with the travel time and all.”

“Half-hour,” Nathaniel can’t resist correcting. “Plus—you brought your lunch with you today.”

“Right! Right, I did,” Rebecca agrees, throwing up a hand in a careless shrug and forcing a laugh. “Silly me. Well, there you go. No reason for me to leave the office today. None at all.” She stops, noticing the keys in his hand. “What about you? Where are you off to?”

“Hmm? Oh, nowhere.” He gestures at her, then over his shoulder towards the elevator with his thumb. “I thought I, uh… I thought I left my phone at your house this morning,” he explains, shaking his head and grimacing at his supposed carelessness. “But I didn’t. It was in the conference room. So, crisis averted.”

“Well, great!”

“Uh-huh,” he agrees. “Great.”

Rebecca flashes him an overly cheerful smile before excusing herself in the direction of the break room and he watches her go, waiting until she’s sufficiently out of sight to call out across the bullpen.

“George! My office! Now!”

* * *

George sidles back into his office looking like he’s just stepped out of some kind of disaster movie.

He’s wet, for starters. Not just a little bit but a  _lot,_ his hair plastered ridiculously to his forehead and collar sticking to the damp of his neck. There’s dirty smudges on his sleeves around the wrists and the knitted vest that could be considered his trademark is frayed around the edges and in one spot, blatantly torn, bite-sized.

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows, unsure where to start.

“What the hell happened to you?”

George scrunches his face up as well as his fists, taking a deep breath before jabbing an accusing finger in his direction.

“That… thing, that you sent me to check on? Is nota dog. It’s a demon. It’s a demon that has come to Earth to destroy us all and has taken the very convincing form of a dog. It has you fooled, I can tell. But I see it. I see it for what it truly is.”

Nathaniel can’t help but bristle, squaring his shoulders defensively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I asked you to do was look in on him, not give him a bath.”

“No!” George interrupts, in one of his rare displays of determined defiance. “You sent me to feed him and water him and walk him. And none of those things went the way you described they would. And I am  _not_  taking the heat for any of the damage that may or may not have been done to Rebecca’s house during this errand that falls  _completely_ outside of my job description. So  _you_  have fun explaining  _that_ to  _her_.”

Glowering, George backs out of the office with a pointed slam of the door.

Rebecca pushes her way in a few seconds later, coffee in hand and eyebrows raised.

“What’s up with George?”

Nathaniel clears his throat.

“So you should probably call Heather,” he says, sheepish. “Warn her not to go home just yet. You either. I think there’s some cleaning I’m going to need to do first.”

He refuses to elaborate past that.

**3.**

“Hey,” Nathaniel says, dropping his keys on the counter and greeting Rebecca with a gentle squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “What’s that you’re filling out?”

“Licensing papers for this guy. Soon-to-be-officially Captain Bunch,” she says, pointing her fingers at him and putting on the voice she does when she’s making up crime show theme songs about her and her therapist. “Get it? Like Cap’n Crunch, only it’s Bunch. And a dog. Ooh, do you think they make little doggy captain hats?”

She curls her fingers in front of her face, eyes wide as she pushes her bottom lip out in response to her own adorable mental image.

“And who says he’s taking your last name?”

“Well, his first name is already kind of in reference to you, so. It’s only fair. Speaking of, do they make water polo balls for dogs, or can we just let him chew yours?”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes at her and steps into the kitchen, crouching down to pet the dog in question. Captain rolls onto his back with an excited wriggle, tail thumping contentedly against the tiles; Nathaniel’s definitely gotten better at doling out pats but he still feels awkward, half convinced his belly rubs look more like someone that’s reluctantly skimming a hand rail, checking for dust.

Rebecca chews the end of her pen, oblivious.

“Also, while I’m thinking of it—I had to book him in to be neutered on Thursday. It’s the only opening they had, so I’ll just take the morning off work to drop him off.”

That gets his attention.

“What?”

“Yeah. You know, the ol’ snip snip. Has to be done before he’s six months old.”

Nathaniel straightens back up, much to Captain’s dismay.

“Well that just seems… unnecessarily brutal.”

“Yeah, well—one of the joys of responsible pet ownership, I’m afraid.”

He shifts on his feet, frowning.

“It just kind of seems like maybe we should have had a conversation about this first, before you just started making serious decisions concerning his identity,” he says, a little defensively, and Rebecca tilts her head at him, puzzled.

“I’m sorry if you felt out of the loop, but there’s not really anything to discuss here,” she says. “He’s getting it done. Also, his  _identity_? Sorry, what?”

“You’re literally trying to emasculate him. He’s a boy. He’s a  _man_ ,” he says, curling a clenched fist and gritting his teeth and looking down at the dog currently tugging on his shoelaces. He carefully extracts his foot before continuing. “Aren’t you, buddy? And you just wanna take all that away from him, just like that.”

He snaps his fingers, and Rebecca’s face is for the most part unimpressed.

“Gross,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “He’s a  _dog,_ okay—stop projecting your preconceptions about human gender onto him.” She turns her attention back to the papers spread out across the bench. “Anyway, it says here that it reduces dominance, aggression and sexual behaviours—which, now I’m saying that out loud, yep, those are three things you hold pretty dear so I can see how this would be bringing up some feelings in you. Do you need to talk about your tumultuous relationship with your own masculinity?” she teases, feigning concern and reaching over to rub his arm with fake sympathy.

Nathaniel shrugs away from her and rolls his shoulders, brow still heavily furrowed.

“Don’t mock me. This isn’t about me. This is about him,” he says, gesticulating emphatically towards the dog, who cocks his head in response to being gestured at before opening his mouth and lolling out his tongue. “Did anyone ask him how he feels about all this?”

“Look at him,” Rebecca says, jerking her chin in his general direction. “He’s smiling. He has no idea what’s going on. They knock him out, slice it open, yank ‘em out.” Nathaniel winces at her accompanying hand gestures but she ignores him and continues. “Then they stitch him up, and he has to wear one of those hilarious cone things for a week—honestly he’ll be none the wiser.”

Nathaniel says nothing, and when she notices he still looks troubled she softens and steps closer to him, frowning as she smooths her hands up the front of his shirt.

“This is actually upsetting you, huh?”

He avoids her eyes.

“How well do you actually know this vet? Have you read reviews? Are they the best? Because I’ll pay for the best. I’ll pay to airlift him to LA, if we have to,” he says, lips finally twitching into the semblance of a smile.

“Nathaniel,” Rebecca says gently. “You’re allowed to be worried about a dog. It’s okay. I’m not going to think any less of you.”

“I’m being silly,” he says, dismissive.

“Yeah, kinda?” she agrees. “But it’s also kind of adorable.”

He eyes her warily for a moment before relaxing and sliding his arms around her waist to pull her closer, resting his head over hers and nosing into her hair. After a beat she leans back and pushes up on her tip-toes to kiss him, arms creeping around his neck and hands anchoring firmly in his hair, tugging him down towards her until their puppy progeny interrupts them with a bark that comes out more like a yelp; they all but spring apart and turn to look at him, sitting at their feet, seeming all too pleased with his growl-squeak hybrid that has successfully commandeered the attention of his humans.

Rebecca bites her lip and bends down to pick him up.

“Aww, was widdle Cappie jealous?” she coos, scrunching up her face at the exuberant licks she receives in response.

“Do not positively reinforce that behaviour,” Nathaniel says, trying to be stern. “I’m not competing for your affections with a dog.”

“Now who’s jealous?” Rebecca scoffs. She rubs her nose against the puppy’s and withdraws just as quickly when she can see him getting ready to nip. “As if there’s any competition.”

He’d like to think he knows she’s joking, and as she moves away from him back towards the kitchen, ball of fluff in her arms instead of him, he pushes away the uninvited pang in his chest that is definitely, certainly, one hundred percent not the stirrings of jealousy.

 

**4.**

_“Rebecca, this is all your fault.”_

Rebecca groans and rolls over, flopping an arm over her face to ward off the sudden intrusion of light filling her bedroom.

“What is happening,” she mumbles, burrowing into the pillows. “Why’s it so bright.”

“Rebecca, you need to wake up,” Nathaniel says, voice crisp. “Now.”

Huffing in protest, she pushes herself blearily up onto an elbow, scrubbing bemusedly at her barely-open eyes with her free fist. If she blinks a few times she can mostly make out Nathaniel at the foot of the bed, a wriggling mass of fur in his arms that he deposits on top of the covers.

“What happened to no dogs on the bed?” she quips with a yawn, but Nathaniel is in no mood for it.

“Get up. Get dressed. We need to go to the hospital.”

“The hospital? Are you sick? Am I sick? I don’t think I’m sick. Is it Paula? Did Darryl call? Is something wrong with the baby?”

“Not the baby, Rebecca—the  _dog_. The dog is sick and we need to go  _now.”_

She looks to the end of the bed in confusion, where Captain has settled down, head resting between his front paws, eyes looking expectantly up at her. His tail gives a hesitant wag and she shakes her head bemusedly.

“What do you mean? He looks fine. Nathaniel, what is going on?”

He turns and disappears from the room without a word, returning a minute later with a foil wrapper that he thrusts accusingly in her face, eyes wide. She blinks up at him.

“Chocolate. He’s eaten all this chocolate, Rebecca! All of it. I don’t know much about dogs, but I know they can’t eat chocolate—it’s poisonous to them. So we have to take him to the hospital, and get his stomach pumped, or something—”

“ _Vet_ ,” she interrupts. “We have to take him to the vet. Have you tried calling?”

“This is all your fault. This would never have happened at my place. If you didn’t eat all this junk, and didn’t have all this food lying around—”

“That’s not fair,” she says in a small voice.

Rebecca pushes herself shakily out of the bed, collecting Captain in her arms and hugging him to her chest as she makes a beeline for the bathroom, sniffing into his fur when she can hear Nathaniel following her. She still feels half-asleep, disoriented, and she just needs time to  _think—_

“Where are you going?”

She deposits Captain in the bathtub to contain him, much to his chagrin, his tiny but sharp puppy claws slipping and sliding as he tries to claw his way up the side of the porcelain. She splashes water on her face and numbly swipes a brush through her hair, eyes scrunching shut in frustration when Nathaniel’s frantic reflection appears next to hers.

“What are you doing? We need to go! Now!”

“ _Stop_ ,” she says, lower lip trembling at him in the mirror. “Just—just stop  _yelling_  at me.”

She throws up her hands, dropping her hairbrush unceremoniously on the counter and then she’s crumpling, condensing, shrinking up into a heaving ball of sobs on the floor next to the sink.

Nathaniel freezes and it’s like he’s been doused with ice-water; his heart is still hammering erratically in his chest only now he’s caught helplessly between his ongoing panic for the dog they should very clearly not be trusted to take care of and the sharp pang that’s settled firmly in his sternum at seeing Rebecca cry and knowing he’s the one for the most part responsible for her tears. His already-upset stomach twists with guilt and he gulps, struggling to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says dumbly. “I’m sorry.”

He moves towards her, hands going to her shoulders to help her up but she flinches away from him, refusing his touch. When he steps back, flattened palms raised in defeat she takes a deep, shuddering breath and wipes furiously at her face before pulling herself to her feet and pushing past him. She pulls on some pants, shrugs aggressively into a cardigan and wraps her arms around herself, not meeting his eyes.

“Let’s go,” she says flatly.

They barely speak in the car.

 

**5.**

“Listen, little guy. You need to eat.”

Nathaniel nudges the bowl closer but Captain remains unmoved, staring dolefully up at him through the tops of his wide eyes. He looks immeasurably miserable, which stirs an emotional response in Nathaniel he isn’t entirely comfortable with.

“Look, I get it. I know where you’re coming from. I’m not a big eater myself. And the calories in kibble, well…” He trails off, reaching for the packet. “Let’s have a look here. I mean, they’re not great, but you’re young and you’re still growing so you need the nutrients. You haven’t hit anywhere near your daily intake today, so trust me, buddy—you’re good.”

He sighs and leans back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him as he cards a hand down Captain’s spine in what he hopes is an encouraging way.

Rebecca’s gone back to New York for the weekend and left him to fly solo on pet parenting duty, which he had been feeling relatively confident about right up until she’d been gone approximately ten minutes. There’s been a few minor hiccups—mostly stemming from the fact he hasn’t remotely mastered the inflection of voice she’s seemingly able to use to incite Captain into doing mostly anything she wants—but thus far the biggest obstacle he’s encountered has been meal time, and it’s starting to make him anxious.

Contrary to WhiJo’s concerns, Rebecca has adapted surprisingly well to pet ownership, her puppy care routine consistent and matter of fact. Sometimes she acts so blasé about the dog that Nathaniel worries she regrets getting it, until he starts to realise it might be because it’s not a person she doesn’t trust not to leave her if she doesn’t play along.

It occurs to him that it’s not disinterest, this absence of obsession she’s been demonstrating, but  _calm_ —a state so foreign to see her in that it’s no wonder it’s left him confused. A sense of calm he’s having trouble tapping in to despite the detailed instructions she’s pinned to the fridge because there’s too many topics they couldn’t possibly cover,  _what to do in case of refusal to eat_ the most glaring omission by far.

He takes out his phone and Googles how long it takes a dog to die of starvation. It turns out Rebecca should be back before then, so there’s that, but it doesn’t make him feel much better.

When it becomes increasingly apparent no kibble is going to be consumed he scoops the dog up and carries him over to the couch, swinging his feet up and trying to decide between watching television and reading a book. He’s never been one to be particularly overcome with boredom, but he can’t help but lament that his apartment has come to feel disappointingly empty at the promise of an entire weekend without the presence of a certain someone.

One of Rebecca’s nightshirts is slung over the side of the couch and he wants to be annoyed by her messiness but instead he finds himself having to actively fight the embarrassing urge to pick it up and inhale her scent. He settles for stretching out and pillowing his head on the cushion beside it, breathing it in instead as a by-product. Captain has no such shame and fights his way in to curl up on top of it, fur tickling Nathaniel’s nose as he pushes past, pawing at the fabric before turning in a circle and curling up with his big brown eyes still staring Nathaniel down.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re not even supposed to be on the furniture,” he says, frowning. He doesn’t get a response.

He supposes he knows how he feels—he’s spent his own fair share of time pining over Rebecca. He huffs in self defence.

“Shut up. I don’t miss her. You miss her.”

They fall asleep where they are.


	10. rosé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'rosé'.

Chilled wine, as it turns out, is  _cold_ , and Rebecca arches back with a yelp at the not-exactly-pleasant sensation of it running down her chest;  _Cosmo_ failed to mention that the temperature might trump the supposedly erotic effects of the effervescence, and she briefly considers penning a letter to the editor to demand the addendum before all thoughts are suddenly silenced by the warm mouth that seals itself over her nipple because yeah, okay, maybe they were onto something with that particular juxtaposition.

Nathaniel hums around her flushed-pink flesh and she lets out a whine, reaching past him for the bottle to steal her own mouthful of the rosé currently pooling sweet and sticky in the valley between her breasts, breathless and triumphant in her victory—for someone that had scoffed loudly at her choice of alcoholic beverage for the evening (it’s  _pink_ , Rebecca—that makes it a  _girl’s_ drink) he certainly seems to be enjoying it now, nipping and sucking and lapping up every last drop with his eager lips and tongue.

 _I wonder_ , he mumbles against the dip of her navel, ignoring her entirely too-smug smile as he traverses the swell of her stomach and travels lower, lower, even lower still,  _what dish this wine pares best with,_ and then she’s giggling, gasping, all lingering traces of haughtiness long gone.


	11. improved by the addition of pets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'improved by the addition of pets'.

“Nathaniel,” she whispers.

“Mmm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

It takes him a moment to reply, caught as he is in the blissful borderline between sleep and consciousness, his contentment only amplified by the body pressing into his beneath the covers.

“Always concerning,” he manages to sass eventually, sliding an arm around her waist.

“I think it’s time we took the next step in our relationship.”

He has to really force himself to focus at that. It’s too early, in his opinion, for whatever conversation she’s apparently gearing up for, but he pays her the courtesy of rousing, yawning as he pulls himself awake. He cracks a cautious eyelid. 

“…the next step?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What kind of step?”

Rebecca’s body undulates slowly alongside him, and he groans as he joins her in stretching, back popping audibly.

“Well… I was thinking it was time you and I started a family of our own.”

The hand that was smoothing absently up and down her thigh pauses; Rebecca curls herself further into his side and he tenses momentarily until he glances down at her head on his chest and recognises the glint in her eye and the way she’s biting her lip at him.

“Uh-huh,” he says, his tone measured. “You know, I’m glad you brought this up. How big a family are we talking here? Three? Four? Because as a fellow only child I think you’ll agree with me that anything less than two is just a waste of time.”

Rebecca narrows her eyes and opens her mouth to say something but before she can he grabs behind her kneecap and hitches her leg over his to press in to her, effectively cutting her off.

“Let’s make a start right now,” he suggests, eyes on her mouth as he leans into kiss her.

She halts him with a hand on his chest. “Stop,” she laughs, slapping him lightly. “I’m not ruining my objectively fantastic vagina by popping out an army of your demon spawn, so you can let go of that idea.”

He pulls a face, humming and closing his eyes as he tightens his hold around her. “Regrettable, but I’ll get over it.”

After a moment of watching him she cranes her neck up to murmur directly in his ear. “I think we should get a dog.”

Her body jostles atop his as he laughs. “Sure.”

Frowning, she rubs her hand insistently across his chest in an attempt to re-command his gaze. He cracks another eyelid at her, then opens both of them in surprise at the earnest look on her face.

“Wait—that one was serious?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Rebecca.”

“Nathaniel.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before. We can’t look after a dog.”

She does a poor job of schooling the flash of hurt that flickers across her features and he shuts his eyes and rolls onto his back, away from her, to avoid looking at it.

“Why not?”

“Uh, maybe because you couldn’t even keep a fish alive for more than two weeks.”

He _oofs_ and involuntarily folds himself in half at the pointed jab he receives to his solar plexus in response.

“I was _twelve_! And I was a very attentive twelve year old, so I still maintain my mother killed it on purpose just as an excuse to never let me have a pet ever again. Which _clearly_ worked because you’re just as determined to be a grinch about it.”

Bewildered, he blinks at her as she throws back the bedspread and starts aggressively collecting items of clothing from the closet before retreating into the bathroom into the bathroom to change.

“What the hell just happened?”

 

*

 

Other than a rather sullen car ride to the office that particular morning, Nathaniel foolishly lets himself believe the subject has has been dropped just as suddenly as it arose. He’s used to her confusing mood shifts by now—has learned to view them with an odd sort of removed fondness, even—and it wouldn’t be the first time she’s fixated on something momentarily only for it to quickly be forgotten.

Until Heather drops by for dinner one evening and Rebecca practically starts jumping up and down.

“Good, you’re here. You can be my character witness.”

“Oh. Did you finally get yourself arrested for something? Because if so, V owes me a twenty.”

“What? No,” Rebecca says, scrunching up her face. “I need you to testify in favour of my successful ongoing cohabitation with a living creature.” At both her companions’ blank looks, she elaborates, “Heather and I had a pet starfish for many months, and she came out of it completely unscathed. Isn't that right, Heather?”

“Okay, but you literally suggested I kill her,” Heather counters, tilting her head. “Practically the only way you contributed to Estrella’s survival was by not knowing she existed.”

“Yeah, well. I was going through some stuff, okay!”

“Not to be indelicate,” Nathaniel says, clearing his throat, “but you’re kind of always going through some stuff. Which was one of the points I was getting at the other day.”

The wave of regret washes over him almost as suddenly as the indignant tension that vibrates along Rebecca’s frame, her hackles instantly raised.

“You guys think I can’t have a pet because I have BPD? What, you think I’m going to, like, have a bad day and boil a puppy?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

There’s a terse stretch of silence in which Heather’s eyes travel back and forth between him and Rebecca like a spectator at a very tense tennis match.

“Did you just invite me over to settle some weird disagreement you two are having? Because I was under the impression there was going to be garlic bread. Is there not garlic bread? Because I can come back some other time. When there’s garlic bread.”

“Nathaniel thinks I’m too irresponsible to look after a dog,” Rebecca blurts out with all the frustrated urgency of a child dobbing on their sibling. “I want to get a pet dog and he won’t let me, because he’s like my evil stepmother or something, telling me what to do all the time.”

“We share an apartment,” he says, exasperated. “Ergo, all pet-related decisions should be mutual. I’m not your evil step-anything. What happened to relationships being about compromise, hmm?”

“Exactly,” she says, jabbing her fingers at him. “And we can compromise by getting a very small dog.”

He rolls his eyes. “If you’re such a dog person, is there a reason you never got one while you were living with Heather? Or did she have an actual say in the matter?”

“Oh, I never would have let her bring home a dog,” Heather chimes in from where she's bent over the counter, enraptured as always with any display of dysfunction. “Dogs need, like, walking and feeding, and you gotta pick up their poop in the back yard all the time, and you just know she’d forget to do it and I’d be forced to pick up the slack because of my nurturing personality. Yeah. I probably could have taught it some totally killer tricks, though. There’s all sorts of wild stuff on YouTube these days.”

He can’t help himself. He shoots Rebecca a triumphant look as she simmers with barely concealed irritation.

“I didn’t realise the two of you were such good friends. Maybe you should just _marry_ each other,” she snaps, snatching her phone off the counter and stomping off towards the bedroom.

The door slams, but instead of flinching Nathaniel blinks and raises his eyebrows expectantly until it reopens and Rebecca reappears, looking suitably embarrassed and slightly more composed.

“I recognise that was uncalled for,” she says after a deep breath, “but I am feeling reactive and frustrated, and I’m going to self-impose a time-out to recollect myself.”

He nods in acknowledgement and the door closes again, gentler this time. Heather gapes at him.

“She’s working on her outbursts,” he explains.

There’s a beat, then Heather opens her mouth again.

“The garlic bread is in the oven,” he says before she can ask, tipping his head back towards the ceiling as if it might offer him any respite.

 

*

 

“Rebecca.”

“Go away. I’m not talking to you.”

He squeezes his hands briefly into fists and prays for patience before stepping further into the room and shutting the door gently behind him.

“Real mature,” he says.

She’s curled up in an angry ball on her side of the bed, facing away from him. She doesn’t respond.

“Rebecca, what is this really about? You’re being very…” He trails off, not wanting to incite her further. “…obstinate, about this. More so than usual. We haven’t even properly discussed—”

“Why don’t you understand what I _want_?” she growls, the end of her sentence muffled by the pillow she stuffs over her face as she shifts and flops even harder into the bed.

Nathaniel sits down beside her and pries the pillow back with a sigh. “What do you want? Other than a dog, because I’m kind of sensing there’s something else going on here. What is it I’m not getting?”

Her lower lip trembles the tiniest bit, near imperceptibly, and she won’t look at him. He hates the way his stomach clenches in on itself and his feet practically start twitching in the direction of the nearest pet shop at the sight of her, damp-eyed and pouting into the bedspread.

“I didn’t want a dog when I was living with Heather,” she mumbles, frowning and tucking her face into her elbow. “I want a dog with _you.”_

“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word. “But—”

“Because I want us to be a real family,” she blurts out, then bites her lip and twists her face away, embarrassed.

He frowns, not comprehending. “What?”

The breath she takes is shaky and unsure, tears pricking visibly in her eyes in hot, sharp shame. He waits for her to go on, rearranging his face into something he hopes resembles encouraging. Eventually, she untucks her chin from her chest.

“You and I, we both have shitty dads and withholding mothers and our childhoods sucked. They _sucked,”_ she insists, widening her eyes at him when he opens his mouth to protest,“and we didn’t have friends and we didn’t have pets and our parents were the worst. Just, like, objectively the worst. And I don’t want to be our parents. I want to be fun and spontaneous and I want to get a _dog,_ Nathaniel. I want to go together to a breeder and look at a litter of little tiny fluff balls and not have to argue over which one we’re gonna pick because we’re both drawn immediately to the same tiny fluff ball. I want to argue over names, and whose turn it is to mop the floors because neither of us has the remotest idea how to toilet train a puppy. Although Heather was right—there are a _lot_ of informative videos on YouTube.” She shakes her head and barrels on. “I want a reason not to stay at work until 7pm for the rest of our lives because those briefs can always, _always_ wait until tomorrow, no matter how much you insist they can’t, and we have to get home so we can walk to the park while it’s still light out. I know I was joking around but I meant what I said. I want to take the next step with you and I want us to be a family.”

The exhaustion of holding back her outburst seems to hit her after that, and she melts back down into the mattress with an undignified sniff.

Nathaniel runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, hesitant, then stretches out on the bed behind her. He’s tentative when he reaches for her, relaxing with relief when she accepts and twists herself towards him.

“The rest of our lives, huh?” he repeats quietly.

“I mean. The average lifespan of a dog is twelve years, so. I know that’s kind of pre-emptively depressing, but I spent a lot of time Googling dog facts at work today.”

“Is that what you and Paula were doing at lunch?”

“Lunch. Yes. Then,” she says, unconvincingly. “That is definitely when all of the extra-curricular Googling occurred.”

He’s silent for a long time.

“And that’s it?” he prods eventually, the cogs still whirring, still struggling to process. “What set this off?”

“I had a fight with my mom, okay,” she grumbles, re-sequestering her pillow and hugging it tightly to her chest. “My mom called, and I thought she and I were doing better but then I said something wrong and it set her off and we were yelling at each other and I’m just so tired of trying to please her all the time, you know? And I was angry, and I needed some air, so I went for a walk and I saw this couple, and they were walking their stupid golden retriever. Or maybe it was a labrador—I’m not, like, totally up on dog breeds. I could do more research. But it was so cute, with its little pink tongue lolling out the side, and they looked so calm and happy, like they were walking their dog and suddenly they didn’t have a care in the world and I wanted that to be me. I want that to be us.

“And I know what it sounds like. Like it’s another fantasy I’m trying to fit my life into. And maybe that’s part of it, and I’ll bring it up with Dr Akopian, I promise. But—did you know that dogs are great for anxiety? And dog owners live longer. And you could take it jogging and WhiJo—he has a dog, so you two could bond over that, and—”

“I’m not just being a grinch about it,” Nathaniel interrupts, and it’s Rebecca’s turn to pause in confusion.

“Huh?”

“I know you like to think that I’m an asshole about things on purpose, and maybe sometimes that’s true but I wasn’t saying no to be mean. And it’s not just because I think most animals are harbingers of disease that shed everywhere and have a tendency to smell bad. I think having a dog right now would be irresponsible. We—I,” he self-corrects, with a teasing quirk of the corner of his mouth, “work long hours. We don’t exactly have a yard here. And you and I sometimes barely see each other outside of the office as it is.”

Rebecca worries her lip, considering.

“Nathaniel,” she ventures with a tiny smile. “Are you getting jealous of our hypothetical dog?”

He rolls his eyes and juts his chin out at her. “No. I’m just saying—”

“I get it,” she says, cutting him off and tugging him towards her by his hyperextended chin to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “And I guess I’m sorry for making you feel like a bully. I know how much you hate it when I make you examine your moral fortitude.” He huffs and she glances meekly down at her hand where it rests on his chest. “I know I get ahead of myself sometimes. You’re right. This is a two person decision and I shouldn’t just steamroll you into it. I apologise.”

“Thank you.”

She slings a leg up over his hip.

“Will you at least consider it?” she asks quietly, toying with the hem of his grey t-shirt.

He sighs, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll think about it.”

 

*

 

He’s barely in the door back from his business trip before she’s on him, flinging her arms around him with infectious enthusiasm. Despite never being one for sentimentality in the past, he has to admit coming home to something other than his empty old open-plan apartment holds a certain kind of appeal.

“Hey, stranger,” Rebecca greets, tipping her face up towards his for a welcome kiss. “I thought you’d be home hours ago.” She pouts. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He laughs as he kicks off his shoes. “Missed me that much, huh?”

“No. I mean, yeah—of course I missed you,” she corrects with a small shake of her head. “But I was waiting because I have a surprise for you.” She clasps her hands behind her back and rocks excitedly on her heels. “It’s a birthday surprise.”

“It’s not my birthday for another mo—”

“I know that. But I got impatient, and you were away so I had all this time to myself and I stayed up until three a.m. looking at—”

“Rebecca,” he interrupts, his stomach clenching at the frenzied note to her voice. “Rebecca, hey. Look at me for a second. Is everything okay?”

She pauses at that, sinking down off the balls of her feet back to solid ground, visibly deflating.

“I’m not obsessing,” she says automatically.

“Okay.”

“I’m still allowed to like things.”

“Okay.”

“I’m still allowed to have fun, and get excited about stuff.”

She’s turning defensive, now, and that was not his intention. “I was just checking in. It’s okay,” he placates. “I’m sorry for interrupting. What’s the surprise?”

“Maybe you don’t want my surprise,” she says, crossing her arms like a petulant child. “Maybe it’s too ‘O’ for you. Who are you, Dr Shin?”

“‘Oh’?” he echoes.

“Obsessive,” she clarifies. “It’s a stupid acronym they use in group. I hate it. It’s like, just say the word, right? An extra two syllables isn’t going to kill you.” After a beat she adds, “I know I just used it, but it was like, ironically, so it doesn’t count.”

He shakes his head, confused.

“Oh, right—the surprise. Close your eyes.”

He sighs and obeys, crouching to blindly drop his bag in the entryway before allowing her to pull him insistently down the passage to what he assumes is the living room, nearly tripping over an arrant Louboutin heel along the way.

“You know, when you’ve asked someone to give up their eyesight and surrender to your guidance, you should probably respect the sanctity of their trust and like, actively avoid letting them break their neck,” a wry drawl comes from somewhere to his left.

He frowns and twists his head. “Is the surprise Heather?”

“No,” Rebecca says dismissively. “But she helped, and that’s why she’s here. That, and something about our oven being better for cooking garlic bread, or something. I wasn’t really listening, I just needed her help carrying things so I told her to do whatever.”

“It achieves an optimum level of light crispiness my own oven cannot,” Heather explains.

“Hmm.”

Rebecca’s hand squeezes his, requesting his attention. “So I know we talked about our lives not exactly being the best suited to pet ownership—”

His lips flatten into a hard line. “Rebecca, if you adopted a dog while I was gone after we agreed—”

“It’s not a dog,” she says hastily. He feels one of her hands close over his eyes as she tugs him a few steps further forward. “It’s not a cat. It’s not a fish…” She removes her makeshift blindfold, and he cautiously takes it as his cue to open his eyes. “It’s a whole bunch of fish! Ta-da!”

He blinks.

She’s standing in her very best gameshow girl pose, elaborately gesturing towards a large fish tank erupting out of the narrow island dividing the living room from the kitchen, extending most of the way towards the ceiling. Heather leans disinterestedly over the countertop behind it like she owns it, idly chewing gum.

“It’s an aquarium,” Rebecca adds with a proud grin, as if it needed clarifying. “It’s an aquarium of fish.”

“Wow,” he says.

“Do you like it?” she prods.

“I…”

The excitement drains visibly from her features when he’s unable to supply an immediate supportive response. “You don’t like it.”

“It’s not that,” he’s quick to reassure her. “I’m just… processing the surprise. You have to admit it’s a little out of left field.”

“Okay, yes,” she grants, holding up her forefingers. “And I know this is technically still a pet-related decision that I made without you, but. _But_. This isn’t the same as getting a dog, in terms of impact on our day-to-day lives, so I thought it wouldn’t be such a big deal. The upkeep is very low-key. Plus,” she adds, indicating loosely to the tank and looking entirely too pleased with herself, “you love fish.”

“I do?”

“You do,” she insists. She tilts her head at him. “You have an annual pass to the Longbeach Aquarium. And not just the bottom tier one—the expensive one, with all the ridiculous perks no one uses.”

He shrugs—technically she has a point.

“Dude,” Heather says. “Even _I_ know you dig the marine life deep down in your dried up corporate soul. You should really just let her have this one. She, like, put a lot of effort into it, so.”

Rebecca’s shoulders drop and her gaze flits self-consciously to her ex-housemate, and Nathaniel softens instantly, his hand reaching for hers without thought.

“I love it,” he says. “Really. It was a good surprise. The perfect birthday present. Even if it’s not my birthday.”

“Well, today can be your fake birthday.” She snaps her fingers over her shoulder. “Heather, tell Nathaniel happy birthday.”

Heather pulls a face behind her back and does no such thing until Rebecca turns and fixes her with a pointed glare. “Happy not-anniversary of your expulsion from the birthing canal, or whatever.”

Nathaniel winces. “Thanks. I think.”

“Any time.”

“Anyway,” Rebecca says loudly, clearing her throat, “we had an easy, breezy time setting this up—”

“It was the opposite,” Heather mouths at him from over her shoulder.

“—and we’re going to have an easy, breezy time taking care of them, because I am not a fish-killer. I am a fish nurturer. And I’m going to be the world’s most dutiful fish parent. And then you and my mother can both take back every mean thing you ever said about me.”

It’s entirely too charming, the way she gets when she really throws herself behind something, and he can’t help but grin back at her.

“These ones are cool,” he makes himself say, moving closer and pointing at one of numerous tiny, striped fish flitting nervously around the tank.

“Zebra fish! They’re literally called that, because they look like zebras.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I can see that.”

“The spotty ones are leopard danios. And these two are a lionhead and a panda—I picked all the ones that looked like other animals, so it’s like our own little fish zoo.” She presses up on her tiptoes to lean heavily over his shoulder and add, “I named the one with the biggest head Nathaniel.”

He growls at that, turning to wrap his arm around her waist and yank her against him until she’s giggling, smiling earnestly up at him and he can’t make himself be remotely mad.

The moment’s cut short by the ding of the oven timer, and Heather reaches in with a blue-mitted hand to retrieve a foil-wrapped package that she dumps unceremoniously into a heatproof container.

“Well, my work here is done, so I guess I’ll leave you two to make out like a couple of kissing fish. Thanks for the weekend sleepover in your fancy-ass apartment—sorry if your side of the bed smells like apricots now, but you know how it is, a girl’s gotta moisturise. Also, side note—your mattress is rock-hard and objectively terrible and you should definitely invest in a new one. I know you can afford it.”

“That mattress has unrivalled lumbar support,” Nathaniel says defensively.

“Yeah,” Rebecca scowls, insinuating herself around his arm in support. “We love our stupid rock-hard mattress, so get out. But also: thaaaaaaanks.”

Once the front door clicks shut on Heather’s exit, Rebecca turns her attention back to Nathaniel. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I missed you,” she says, nuzzling into him briefly before dragging him over to the armchair closest to their new aquarium.

He lets himself be manhandled unceremoniously into the seat as she presses in beside him, leg flung haphazardly over his lap in order to fit. He’d forgotten, amidst the confusion, that it’s been nearly three days since he last saw her, and his arm tightens reflexively around her at the reminder.

“I might’ve missed you too. Maybe a little. Could’ve just been indigestion, though.”

She wriggles to get comfortable, arms locking around his neck as she curls into him, and he grunts at the elbow he receives to the windpipe in the process.

“It’s calming, right?” she whispers once she’s settled.“I feel like I could watch them for hours.”

He hums in assent and noses into her hair in lieu of a reply. Her eyes are on the fish tank, but his are on the cool blue glow reflected back over her features, illuminating the freckles on her cheek in ultraviolet.

“I love our dumb multicoloured fish babies,” she mumbles into his t-shirt.

“Mm, they look just like you.”

“Except NP4,” she’s quick to correct. “ _He_ takes after his dad.”

“My father will be delighted you’ve chosen to keep with the Plimpton naming convention. It’ll be the heir he always wanted, I’m sure. And your vagina is still intact and everything.”

She uses the hand combing through his hair to give him a light smack on the back of the head.

 

*

 

He hears the faucet shut off in the en suite and a few seconds later Rebecca pads out into the lounge room, wiping the toothpaste off the side of her mouth onto the sleeve of her sushi pyjamas.

“Really?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “You’re going to wear those? In front of the children?”

She frowns, not understanding, then follows his gaze downward, head tipping back in recognition. “Wow, you’re right—that is insensitive of me. Maybe you should take them off,” she purrs as she sashays towards him to crawl into his lap.

“Well,” he says, smirking up at her as he skims his hands lightly down her sides to finger the hem. “If it’s still my fake birthday, I guess it’s only fair I do the unwrapping.”

They manage to tug the shirt off between them without bothering with any of the buttons and she sighs as she moulds herself into his warm body to combat the sudden exposure to the cool night air.

“You wanna move this to our stupid, rock-hard mattress?” he murmurs with a jerk of his chin towards the bedroom.

She shakes her head, running her hands over his chest and revelling in the ripple of his muscles in the cool glow of the aquarium. She waggles her eyebrows at him. “I like a little mood lighting.”

He laughs as he drags her mouth down to his.

 

*

 

“You’re still not getting a puppy.”

She drops her jaw in an affronted, exaggerated pout that’s half offended _you think all of this was just a means to an end?,_ half appalled _even after I just did you so good back there?_

“If you say so,” she says, shrugging into his shirt, yanking it down over her thighs and grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch before joining him back on the armchair.

“I do say so.”

She tucks the both of them in and rests her cheek against his chest. “My birthday’s in April.”

He kisses the top of her head. “I’m aware.”


	12. what the weather wants

“Mothers are cancelled for the New Year,” Rebecca announces, nose flattened against the icy window pane. “Even the weather agrees.”

She’s delighted, when the weather report comes in. A legitimate excuse to get out of spending the day with her overbearing mother  _and_ an all-but-order to stay indoors, rugged up in front of a fancy hotel room fireplace?  _Plus_  snow? It’s like all her post-Christmas Christmases have come at once.

“You know, I’m reasonably sure the heating goes up higher than this,” Nathaniel says with an excessively put-upon sigh.

She stifles a giggle, tearing herself away from between the curtains to insinuate herself into the space beside him in the armchair, no mean feat given the comical added inches to her circumference as a result of all the multiple layers of extra clothing she’s insisted on donning. “But then it would be too warm for coats, silly.”

Her puffer jacket is partway ridden up from her ungraceful sink into the cushions, obscuring half her face, and he manages to wriggle a hand out from where it’s awkwardly wedged between them to pull down on the collar. Her grin widens as it’s revealed to him, and she cranes her neck down to give him an affectionate peck.

“Ooh, maybe our flight home will get grounded,” she says when she pulls back, eyes shining with excitement.

Nathaniel tilts his head at her and frowns. “If you wanted to stay longer, we could have.”

“I didn’t want to  _plan_ to stay longer. God, no. Never plan to stay any longer with Naomi Bunch than you need to.” She shifts, centralising herself on his lap. “But being at the whim of the weather—that’s spontaneous and thrilling.”

“Being snowed in is thrilling?” he asks dubiously.

“It is when you have what has to be the world’s biggest hotel bed, and a fun little something I might have packed in my pilot case,” she purrs, walking her gloved fingers up his chest.

He can’t help it—the way his eyes drop down to her mouth and the muted noise that claws its way out of the back of his throat without his permission. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Rebecca loosens the loop of her oversized scarf from around her neck and pitches forward to slip it down over his, tangling them together in a cosy cocoon of thick maroon wool and looking entirely too pleased with herself as she wraps her arms around him.

She noses her way up his jaw to murmur directly in his ear. “Two words for you, buddy:  _Travel_   _Boggle_.”

Something that’s half-groan, half-chuckle puffs out of him, and it’s not quite cold enough to see the condensation of it in the air but he feels like it might as well be, for where she’s left the thermostat. And yet—fifty layers of clothing between them and every one of her curves concealed in what could easily be the discarded carcass of the Michelin Man should  _not_  be this enticing.

“God, I love it when you talk dirty,” he mumbles against her mouth before kissing her, the warmth finally starting to blossom through him nothing to do with the scarf.


	13. lost laundry

When Rebecca feels lost, she likes to clean.

It’s grounding, to scrape each surface back to something purer than before, to start over from scratch, to see everything afresh. To take the invigorating sensation of the shower scalding back her skin until it’s raw and apply it like a salve to her entire life. To melt it down until it’s ready to be made into something new, something bleached out and burnt-back and  _better_.

When Josh walks out on her and Greg leaves her standing tear-streaked and stranded in the liminal layover of LAX she takes a determined scourer to her countertop and sweeps the spaces where they used to be; when that doesn’t work she finds her fingers itching for the matches, for the cleansing sear of heat that promises to help bring her back into line.

If she were a mutant or a witch or prodigy—a protagonist in a post-apocalyptic novel with newfound special powers, perhaps—she’d be a Firestarter, an unwieldy pyrokinetic with a proclivity for getting burned; Daddy’s angry little arsonist, reignited post-Robert and bruised heart set ablaze. Her apartment goes up in smoke along with Josh’s karategi and Greg’s Emory sweatshirt and all manner of paraphernalia in between, and what emerges isn’t particularly graceful or reformed. Not for long, anyway, and when Josh jilts her at the altar she feels a different kind of flame inside of her. The metamorphosis is  _dark,_ but the desire for revenge burns bright.

( _BPD is akin to having third degree burns over ninety percent of your body_ , the workbooks like to metaphorise. When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.)

She doesn’t feel the urge to singe Nathaniel’s shirt—the root of dissolution here, after all, lies with her. There’s no right to scorn or spurn. (That particular spark flares up a few weeks later, at the sight of him and a mutual funds manager named Mona,  _Stanford_  splashed across their matching shirts just to drive the knife in deeper. Red really isn’t his colour, she tells herself, digging crescent moons into her palms in a similar angry shade.) She doesn’t know what to do with it instead, though, and when she catches herself clutching it a little too tenderly she stuffs it in the washing machine just to stop herself from smelling it.

It’s hours later when she remembers that it’s there, crumpled and sodden in the barrel, no doubt growing musty so it just makes sense to restart the cycle. She washes the shirt two, three, four times over when the idea of taking it out and hanging it up to dry somewhere makes her feel like she can’t breathe, almost, and she slides down the wall opposite the machine and watches the spin cycle until her heartbeat synchronises with the thumping of soggy fabric against the drum.

She washes it again and again for good measure, until a shirt is just a shirt and not a memory—until the heather-grey material smells like laundry detergent and fabric softener and the freshness of new dryer sheets instead of sex and laughter and his warm, long legs tangled up in hers. Until every last incriminating speckle of glitter is gone.

(She’s no stranger to obsession. She can do this, she thinks. Take what makes her broken and wield it like a weapon until she feels powerful, in control.)

It’s the better part of a year before she can bring herself to stand on his doorstep again, hand poised to knock without any particular pretence or promise. He looks stricken, when she hands it him, but she shakes her head to dissuade his fear at the finality of it.

“Sometimes a shirt is just a shirt,” she says, and feels at peace that she can mean it.  _Not every action is a gesture._  “This is yours. I just thought you should have it back.”

His sleeves are curled up around his elbows in a cornflower blue that catches his eyes, and something warm and familiar rekindles inside her at the reminder of the tickle of his shirttails trapped between his leather couch and the backs of her thighs. It feels pleasant, containable. Her new skin thick enough to handle the burn.


	14. otherwise occupied

The party hasn’t  _quite_ gotten started by the time Heather interrupts them with the insistent staccato of her fist against the bedroom door, but it’s enough on its way that they both visibly flinch, mouths detaching with an audible pop, and stare at each other in mutual frustration.

“Occupied,” Rebecca calls out, then yanks Nathaniel back down by his neck to resume her attack on his face.

“Sorry, can’t hear you, coming in,” Heather intones back.

The door opens as promised to reveal a wine-drunk Heather, bottle in hand, and Rebecca growls at the intrusion, executing a poorly-aimed shove and roughly extricating Nathaniel’s hand from under her shirt.

She flops heavily onto her back. “What do you  _want,_ Heather?”

Ignoring the question, Heather jerks her chin at Nathaniel. “Can I get under the covers, or are you not wearing pants?”

He stares at her for a moment before reaching for his discarded t-shirt at the foot of the bed. “Maybe I should just go.”

“Hey,” Rebecca says abruptly. “What are you doing? Don’t—do not put your shirt back on. She’s leaving!”

“Yeah,” Heather says with a shrug, blatantly looking him up and down. “I mean, it’s fine.”

He frowns and tugs the sheet up over his chest as a compromise.

“He might still be wearing his pants,” Rebecca grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest and staring straight forward at the wall, “but I’m not making any promises.”

“This side it is. Scooch over, lover boy.”

Heather lifts up the corner of the bedspread and shoehorns her way in with such matter of factness that Nathaniel finds himself shifting over without question, nudging Rebecca closer to her edge of the bed as a byproduct and earning himself disbelieving scowl in response.

“I see what this is,” Rebecca says, yanking out the sheets where they’ve gathered uncomfortably beneath her. “This is payback for last weekend. But it’s not going to work. Ha-ah-ah,  _nope._ You know why? Because I love sleepovers. Sleepovers are my favourite thing, so. Of course I’m going to love a sleepover with two of my favourite people. Right? That’s just… twice the fun. Which means I’m going to enjoy this way more than you.”

“Cool,” Heather says, the infinitesimal twitching of her lips only serving to needle Rebecca further. “Then let’s hang, roomie. Bring it.”

Nathaniel continues to fidget from where he’s caught uncomfortably between them, still clutching the comforter to his chest.

“Oh, are you, like, low-key pitching a tent or something? Don’t be embarrassed—I’m outdoorsy. I knew what I was walking in on.”

His eyes flutter shut as he tilts his face up towards the ceiling. “Well and truly taken care of, believe me.”

“Do you guys want some wines?” Heather asks, angling the neck of the bottle for a refill and narrowly avoiding missing the glass entirely. A trickle runs down the side onto the bedspread.“Oops. I only have one glass but we can share, it’s fine.”

He can practically see Rebecca’s eye start twitching as she stares at the pink blotch blossoming in the fabric of her covers, and he squeezes her thigh in an attempt to appease her. “We’re good,” he says, clearing his throat.

Heather palms the remote from the nightstand and immediately commandeers control of the television, punching through the channels until she settles on reruns of  _Planet Earth,_ curiosity sufficiently piqued by the colourful shots of schools of tropical fish and the pleasing lilt of David Attenborough’s dulcet tones.

Nathaniel would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested, but the simmering agitation is still rolling off Rebecca in waves beside him. He knows better than to spend too much time looking at the screen.

Her stony silence persists, though, and when she rolls her eyes and pushes herself down the bed to bury her head into her pillow—back turned towards them, the cold shoulder clear—he lets himself grow a little lax. He doesn’t watch TV particularly often, and while Rebecca’s generally a fan of a late night movie, more often than not they tend to find themselves somewhat preoccupied.

“She should get a new mattress, right?” Heather says during a lull in the commentary, between ungraceful gulps of her wine. “You should tell her to get a new mattress. This one feels like it was passed over by Goldilocks, the princess from Once Upon a Mattress  _and_ the princess from Slumbered. Just, like, all the exhausted princesses.”

“The bed is fine,” Nathaniel says, raising his eyebrows. “Sleep like a baby, every time.”

“Well, okay then, Papa Bear.”

Though he immediately hates himself for it, after a beat he asks, “Was Goldilocks a princess?”

“Yeah. But like, a people’s princess.”

Rebecca lets out a sleepy moan and rolls back towards Nathaniel, burrowing into his side. “If you hate my mattress so much,  _leave_ ,” she says, the words garbled from the way her face is smooshed into his ribcage. His palm curls around her shoulder on autopilot but she shrugs him off irritably, oversteering and tipping too-far towards the edge.

She lets gravity take its due course and melts out the side of the bed to the floor, taking half the bedcovers with her. Once she manages to push herself to her feet—pantsless, as promised earlier, but thankfully with a flash of blue cotton visible beneath the hem of her t-shirt—she tangles a hand in her mussed hair in frustration. “Dude, seriously. What do I gotta do to get you to leave? Coitus interruptus aside, I just fucking want to go to bed.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” Heather assures her. “One—you’re right, this  _is_  payback for last weekend. Two—as long as I’m here, you two aren’t having sex. Which means I don’t have to  _listen_  to you two having sex. Three—your television is bigger than mine, so. Pros all round.”

Nathaniel recognises what’s about happen approximately two seconds before Rebecca launches herself forward, and by some miracle of reflex he manages to intercept and haul her off Heather before she has the chance to substitute a sharp writing implement with her bare hands at her housemate’s throat.

“Okay,” he says, swinging her back towards the other side of the mattress with a grunt despite the admirable struggle she puts up. “That’s enough.”

“Let me go, you  _turncoat_ ,” she gasps, so taken aback by his unexpected betrayal that her assault on Heather is momentarily forgotten.

She clambers back off the bed, turning around to yank on the bedspread as an afterthought, pulling the covers off entirely and exposing the twin lengths of their ridiculously long legs. Nathaniel comically scrunches up in a ball at the unexpected gush of air but Heather remains unfazed, tilting her head in Rebecca’s direction.

“Well, rude,” she says.

“You,” Rebecca growls, jabbing an index and middle finger in Nathaniel’s direction. “Put your shirt on. We’re leaving. This sleepover has officially been relocated to your apartment and Heather’s not invited.”

Nathaniel opens his mouth to say something then quickly closes it again, sneaking a furtive glance at the television that has Rebecca jerking her head towards him and widening her eyes, enraged.

“Oh, I’m sorry—would you rather stay in bed and watch late night TV with my drunk housemate than continue taking off the rest of my clothes?” When he hesitates she adds, “For the record, there is very much a right and wrong answer to that question.”

Rolling his eyes, he retrieves his shirt from the end of the bed and tugs it down over his head, compressing the crest of his hair and sending it bouncing comically upwards once it escapes containment. “Are you really going to make me drive across town right now? It’s almost midnight.”

“Are you really leaving me to infer that your answer is yes—you  _would_ rather stay in bed and watch—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he assures her, reaching across Heather to retrieve his keys from the nightstand.

“Well, you kids have fun,” Heather calls after them as Rebecca aggressively shepherds Nathaniel from the room, tossing one shoe then the other at his retreating back and eliciting a protesting yelp each time. “I’m just gonna, like, chill here and crash.”

She starfishes across the bed in satisfaction.


	15. auld lang syne

She pretends she doesn’t notice, at first, the way the lights are still on in the top corner of the building.

The alarm is echoing innocuously throughout the lobby, loud enough to be obnoxious in the excessive time it takes her to figure out how to disarm it but subdued enough that she’s sure it would dissuade exactly no one in the event of an actual break in. As it is the shop looks completely untouched, the undisturbed dusting of flour across the countertop a pretty good indicator that the only disruption to the peace has been the ineffectual blaring of the seemingly accidentally triggered security siren.

Once the noise has been dealt with, though, she can’t stop her eyes from darting to the elevator.

Call it curiosity, call it new year cheer, call it two glasses of wine and her not being able to help herself—she finds herself perusing the front cabinet for the plainest pretzel she can find. It’s not fresh, obviously, but it’ll do—its intention is symbolism, not sustenance—and she’s not stupid; the chances of it going uneaten are high. After some consideration she doubles back to snag a bottle of merlot, and she only hesitates a moment before hitting the button for the third floor.

The fluorescents are off in the bullpen when she steps out, the only source of light the beckoning glow of the office that had once been hers. Nathaniel is in there, just like she knew he would be since she first spied the warmth in the window from the street below. If hears the ding of the elevator doors he doesn’t show it, head resting against the hand that’s nursing the scotch, eyes on something on his computer screen. Even from the other side of the office she can tell he looks weary—tie loosened around his neck and shirtsleeves pushed up around his elbows.

“Hey,” she says, voice unnaturally high as she hovers in the doorway.

Nathaniel doesn’t startle so much as shake himself drowsily to look up at her, but when his gaze meets hers he straightens and stares a moment before his hand comes up to slam his laptop shut. “Hi.”

She takes it as permission to cross the threshold, sidling exaggeratedly closer in her awkwardness. “Whatcha doing?”

“Uh, working,” he says, brows flicking upwards, and she thinks he’s trying for some of his usual acerbity but the sting doesn’t quite filter through.

“Right. That real estate law—really stops for no man. How quickly I forget.”

“Ha.” He flashes her a quick smile that doesn’t remotely touch the rest of his face. After a second of hesitation he points at her and adds, “Stopped plenty for you, though.”

“No  _man_ ,” she repeats, her own smile spreading slow and easy.

“Ah.”

It’s bad idea, being alone with him in the lowlight of this office that for so long they shared and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Just standing on the other side of his desk turns the dial way up on a pleasant, spicy heat simmering low down in her belly that isn’t entirely from the wine. But there’s just something so pleasantly effortless in how they can slip back into their banter, playful and almost  _cozy_  in the way it settles around her shoulders like a blanket. Like an old friend.

She’s caught for a moment between two alternate universe Rebeccas—the one that surges forward, takes his face firmly in her hands and kisses him, lets him hike her skirt up around her waist to press her back against the desk. Versus the level-headed, reformed Rebecca that comes in purely platonic peace, conciliatory pretzel in hand and nothing more, that bids him goodnight and then leaves. Both of them lose out in her hesitation, though—Nathaniel breaks the silence first.

“What are you…” He trails off, apparently taking note of the way she’s holding something behind her back.

“I get security alerts,” she explains, pulling her phone from her pocket, “and Siri thought there was a break-in, or a fire, or something. But I guess it was a false alarm, because everything looks fine downstairs.” Her eyes slide over the decanter on his desk, the liquid line lower than she ever remembers it being. He’d touched it once or twice after a particularly gruelling day in their brief shared stint as partners, but she suspects he’s tossed back more than just a finger tonight. “Drinking alone on New Years Eve? That’s kind of sad, dude. Whijo didn’t invite you to the shindig at Home Base?”

“He did,” he says. “As did Heather, actually.” When she raises her eyebrows at him expectantly he elaborates, “It wasn’t my scene.”

She feels a pang of sympathy for him, holed up in his office alone, even if the isolation is self inflicted. She knows he doesn’t have many friends, and the holidays have a terrible habit of highlighting otherwise ignorable shortcomings in the whole surrounding-yourself-with-loved-ones department. It can’t help but occur to her that he could be spending the evening with Mona right now, champagne in hand at some kind of fancy LA soiree, if only things had gone a little different.

“Feel like some company?” she asks, swallowing down on the uneasiness that washes over her at the realisation. She withdraws the bottle of wine from behind her back; tips it back forth. “A drink between two old friends?”

Warmth rises high in her cheeks as his eyes flit over her face, almost suspicious, searching her out.

“Why not,” he says eventually, the smile more sincere this time, and he pushes up out of his chair to find her a glass.

Nathaniel settles back against the edge of his desk to watch her pour, long legs stretched out in front of him and ankles crossed, the arm cradling the crystal curled against his chest.

“Cheers,” she says, and he gives her an obligatory clink.

They’re silent as they sip, and Rebecca drains her drink quicker than intended in lieu of conversation.

She steps closer to where he’s perched to reach past him for the bottle, the way her arm grazes his as she leans over both intentional and not, the cause and effect of her motivations something that would make Schrödinger proud. She’s so close she can hear him swallow, and they both freeze, the air between them alive with electricity—every echo of their time together contained in these walls crackling kinetic between them like inescapable muscle memory.

They both startle at the vibration of her phone against the glass top when Valencia’s name splashes across the lock screen in an ill-timed, incomprehensible flurry of emojis.  _Gurl, where are you?? It’s countdown time! Get your ass back here._

She lets out a nervous titter. “I should—” she begins, meaning to move away, but Nathaniel’s fingers tangle in hers before she can remember how her feet work, tugging her infinitesimally closer.

“I miss you,” he says simply, head tilted, eyes open and pleading with her to read them like a book, to stop him from having to say what he’s thinking out loud. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I didn’t want to push. You made yourself very clear. But some nights I can’t help but think… Can’t help but hope…”

Her eyes flutter shut as the music swells inside her, as the latent heat of every time he’s shared her personal space courses through her bloodstream like a heady drug. Her hand is warm where it’s wrapped in his, and he rubs back and forth at the webbing between her thumb and forefinger, grazing the sensitive skin with the blunt of his nail until she can’t quite stop the whimper that squeezes out of her in response.

She makes herself look up at him just as the faraway popcorn-peppering of fireworks starts stuttering in the distance.

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs, gaze fixed firmly on her mouth.

It can’t be anything but an invitation, the only half-deliberate way she sinks her front teeth into the pink-stained swell of her lower lip. So she can’t fault him when he takes her up on her cue, dipping his head so that his breath puffs out enticingly across her upturned face, the rich, oaky aroma of the whisky so sharp she can taste it on her tongue.

“I’m living with Josh, now,” she blurts out, palms flattening on his chest and  _god,_ her resolution reallyneeds to be to curb this new impulse of hers before it becomes a rather unfortunate habit. “Or he’s living with me. Inside my house.”

Nathaniel looks at her, lips still slightly parted from his intent to slide them down to hers, and she watches wide-eyed as the heavy crease takes shape in his brow. “What?”

“In Heather’s bedroom, not mine,” she adds. “Not that you needed to know that. But I think I wanted you to know that. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

He doesn’t pull away immediately so she does it for him, taking an apologetic half-step back and pushing her hand up into her hair, feeling the residual flour from the countertop scrape across her skin. He lets his hands hover around the space where she was standing before holding them up to her, splayed.

“I don’t…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath—shakes his head like he’s trying to shake her out of it. Hardens. “You were right. I don’t understand you. At all.”

Every single reason he has to say it doesn’t lessen the blow, the finality in his voice sinking through her, making her upsettingly sober.

“Nathaniel,” she says, tone pleading despite all the evidence stacked against her favour.

She tamps down on every other desperate confession that threatens to bubble up in her throat now that she’s gotten started.  _Josh went fake camping with me in my kitchen and I felt a little bit like glitter was exploding inside me. Greg’s back in town and I don’t know how that makes me feel. Every time you do something nice it’s like the world’s most overwhelming aphrodisiac, and I almost kissed Darryl at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. It’s been an_ I don’t understand you  _mess of a freaking year._

“Why did you come here, Rebecca?”

“I already told you,” she says. “I got an alert on my—”

He makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. Cuts her off. “Why did you come  _here?”_

The wine and the pretzel lay discarded on his desk, but she knows that’s not what he’s looking for, either. She shrugs, hopeless to give him a proper explanation. “I don’t know.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I don’t know. I just… I saw your light on, and I just… wanted to.”

The nod starts out slow then gains momentum, lips twisting as he stuffs a hand in his pocket and grabs his lowball, gripping it so hard his knuckles glow white. He turns his back to her in favour of staring stoically out the window, raising his glass with sardonic cheer. “To you figuring out what you really want,” he mutters, bitter as the burn of the scotch sliding down the back of his throat as he downs the rest of his drink.

Her chest feels all at once like it’s too full and she can’t draw in enough air, and she hates the angry prickle of tears threatening to well in her eyes at his words that hit a little too close to home.

The elevator doors can’t open fast enough, and she doesn’t even stop to switch off the lights at Rebetzels.

So much for starting over, she thinks, throat tightening as she chokes on the smoke of yet another bridge she feels like she’s managed to burn in such a short stretch of weeks.

The muffled words catch the breeze at a nearby party and are carried towards her as she strides shakily through the parking lot, whipping her hair windswept and wild around her face.

_But seas between us broad have roared since days of auld lang syne._


	16. unconventional sleep aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for the tumblr prompt 'unconventional sleep aid'. set in some kind of post-4x12, pre-4x14 space.

“I need to see you in my office. _Now._ ”

Rebecca frowns, tucking her phone between her ear and shoulder in order to resume wiping down her countertop. “And good evening to you, too. Also, I don’t work for you anymore. Also, it’s 7 p.m.”

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” Nathaniel concedes. “Good evening, Rebecca—hope you’re well. I need to see you in my office. Now. _Please_.”

The call is terminated before she has time to come back with a witty rejoinder.

“Ugh, fine,” she says, tossing her washcloth in the direction of the back counter. “I’ll bite.”

She rolls her eyes as she steps into the elevator.

 

*

 

“I know we don’t see each other so much anymore, but dude. You still could’ve mentioned to me at some point that you adopted a baby.”

She’s not entirely sure _what_ she expected from her gruff summons to the Mountaintop office, but Nathaniel with a small child balanced on his hip definitely wasn’t remotely in the zip code of it.

He shoots her a withering look in response. “This isn’t my baby,” he says. “This is your baby, so I’m going to need you to take her.”

Rebecca takes a pointed step backward when he moves towards her, angling his cargo away from his body and very clearly telegraphing his intentions to pass it over.

“Whoa, nuh-uh,” she says, holding up her hands to reject the transfer. “That is not my baby and you know it.”

“You helped make it,” he accuses.

“Hey, Heather carried it around in her Easy-Bake for nine months. If you’re going to play that particular card, you can call her.”

His expression shifts so quickly from pleading to miserable that she has to swallow back a laugh. Apparently resigning himself to his fate, he readjusts his awkward hold and checks his watch with an irritated flick of his wrist.

Rebecca finally steps out of the doorway, crossing the threshold into the office proper. It feels strange, being back here, and the hour and the lighting isn’t making it any easier. She surveys the room—there’s a portable cot half-kicked under Nathaniel’s desk, his phone still face up on the glass where he’d barked at her on speaker. Nothing that provides any real insight into what exactly is going on.

“So how _did_ you get stuck with my strictly-biological offspring, anyway?”

Nathaniel’s body is making intermittent jerking motions that Rebecca isn’t entirely convinced he’s conscious of; when she realises it’s his absent attempt at rocking Hebby, she has to bite back her grin. 

“I’m not entirely sure. Darryl rushed out of here—something about his other daughter and an unfortunate incident on the monkey bars—and since I’m the only person around here capable of putting in a little overtime without coercion—”

“The only one without a life,” Rebecca corrects. “Carry on.”

“— _somehow,_ being the last person left in the office was all the babysitting qualifications required.”

“Well, I’m not sure what you need me for. It seems like you’re doing perfectly fine on your own.”

Nathaniel blinks. “You don’t understand. It won’t stop crying.”

“What are you talking about? _She_ hasn’t made a peep the entire time I’ve been here.”

“Because I picked her up,” he says, like it’s an obvious issue. “As soon as I put her back in her little carrier thing, it’ll be back to uncontrollable wailing. She’s a baby—what does she even have to wail about? She’s too young to have problems.” He gestures at his chest with his free hand. “ _I_ have problems. They just got rid of the ChargePoint on Azusa. I’m the one that should be uncontrollably wailing.”

“I mean, have you tried again? She seems pretty settled to me.”

In lieu of a response, Nathaniel switches his hold on Hebby to a two-handed, under-arm grip. True to his word, the second she leaves the comfort of the crook of his arm she starts to fuss. By the time he’s depositing her in the tiny bassinet it’s progressed to what Rebecca has to concede is indeed a full-blown wail.

“You know, I spent a lot of time in this office,” Rebecca crouches in front of the carrier to whisper conspiratorially, “and I gotta say. I can relate.”

When she glances back up Nathaniel’s looking at her with something too much like eight months of memories in his eyes and she clears her throat, suddenly oddly grateful to have a baby as a buffer between them to fend them off.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll just…”

She dips to scoop up the wriggling, wauling mass of tear-streaked pink skin, fitting her to her shoulder in a way that feels slightly less unnatural than it did the last time, one hand wrapping around the back of the tiny, curly head on some kind of hesitant autopilot. Hebby gives the illusion of settling for approximately a millisecond before she’s squirming, her cries ascending in pitch until they’re bordering on a scream, arms extended to make uncoordinated grabby hands in Nathaniel’s general direction. More amused than perturbed, Rebecca holds her out towards him.

His smug look fades, and he only resists a moment before reluctantly taking back his charge.

It’s almost comical, the way Hebby claws her way up Nathaniel’s chest, clutching at the fabric of his clothes with frustrated, clenching fingers, as if she’s mad at him for setting her down to begin with, and she wants him to know it. But then she wipes her snotty face on the breast of his jacket and falls quiet, her plump rosy cheek pressed firm against his shoulder. 

When she’s not busy being the one terrified at the prospect of caring for an infant, Rebecca supposes she can admit on some objective level that parenthood isn’t as entirely off-putting as she’d like to pretend. Or perhaps objectivity isn’t exactly something she can claim right now, given the treacherous flutter of endearment she’s currently experiencing in the face of another one of her former lovers looking distractingly paternal with a tiny human cradled in their arms. 

Between the exhaustion, her ovaries and her overly complicated daddy issues, it’s like she barely stood a chance.

“Wow. The whole Mr Mom look kind of suits you.”

Nathaniel rolls his head away from her, dismissive and embarrassed. “I’m not… Kids aren’t my thing,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Well, neither. But Hebby here says you’re a liar.”

 _Figures_ , she thinks, remembering the way Greg had so similarly easily mollified her. _Not everything is about the guys_ , _girl,_ she feels like she’s going to need to caution, just as soon as the kid’s language skills are underway.

“She likes you,” is what she ends up saying aloud, softly, begrudgingly charmed by the chubby hand weakly fisting in Nathaniel’s burgundy tie.

“Well, she definitely didn’t get that from you,” he says, tone vaguely self-deprecating. He must catch something she wasn’t quick enough to conceal in her face because he immediately opens his mouth to backtrack. “I was just—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts. Her teeth sink into her lower lip. “Actually, while I’m here, I kind of owe you an apology.”

His eyebrows crease up his forehead. “For what?”

It’s the first time they’ve properly seen each other since her recent spectacular nosedive, outside of tight smiles and lingering looks in the lobby. Now that they’re in an enclosed space together the metaphorical elephant in the room seems to be looming twice as high.

“For the other night. Thank you _,_ for sending me home,” she says, with all the unnerving sincerity she can summon. 

Nathaniel looks stricken, sucking in a steadying breath. “Oh. You don’t have to—”

“No, listen. My acting out could have played out so much worse if it weren’t for you and Josh, and I know it’s a low bar to set for basic human decency, but I also know what spiralling Rebecca can be like, and it’s not pretty—she’s kind of a manipulative bitch. You were trying to move on and me turning up on your doorstep was so far outside the realm of okay, Nathaniel—I am _so_ sorry. Honestly.”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. I appreciate it. Did you…” He trails off, wetting his lips, changing tracks mid-sentence from what she can sense he really wants to ask. “Did you get a good night’s sleep, at least?”

She thinks of the bench outside the outpatient centre, the crick in her back and the stiffness deep in her bones when she woke to Dr Shin shimmering in front of her like some kind of mirage. A lifesaver, coming to buoy her back to shore. “Yes,” she says, consoling herself with the sliver of truth behind the lie. “You saw how much I’d had to drink. Slept like a baby.”

Her gaze slides over the sleepy droop of Hebby’s own eyelids, and she can’t help but think of how much she doesn’t want any of this mess for her.

“Do you ever get sick of apologies?” she wonders out loud. “I kind of keep waiting for everyone to get tired of my broken record. I know I do.”

“I’ve never been big on them until recently,” Nathaniel says, offering her a small smile. “The novelty hasn’t worn off for me yet.” 

He moves to lean against the edge of his desk, snapping ramrod straight again when Hebby immediately grizzles her protest. The minute he’s properly upright she makes a contented snuffling sound and he hitches her a bit further up on his chest, hesitating. “Can I just…”

“What?” 

“I know you were hurting,” he says, swallowing hard, “when you came to my apartment. I know it wasn’t about me, or even Greg, really. I know that, I do. But I—”

“You want to know if I meant any of what I said,” she finishes for him. 

She’s gotten stuck on that a few times, too. She isn’t sure she has a satisfying explanation for either of them.

“I was not in a good place. I felt rejected, and when I feel that way I lash out. And I go looking for that attention elsewhere. So I went to you, because I thought, ‘here’s a sucker that’s chosen me, every single time I’ve given him half the chance’.”

He exhales hard at that. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. Like I said—she’s a bitch. But as for what you’re wondering—the answer’s messy.” She tilts her head at him, giving him a sad smile. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about you.”

His palm is rubbing back and forth across Hebby’s baby blue romper in broad, firm strokes, and if he wasn’t otherwise occupied she imagines he’d be subjecting the back of his neck to the same motion. They’ve spent enough time in the company of each other’s bodies to know their tics and tells.

“I’m starting to realise that life is made up of loose threads, and maybe I need to accept that I can’t untangle all of them. I just gotta let some of them dangle, and kind of catch on things until they fall out.”

He lets out a wry chuckle. “The knots on this one run pretty deep, huh?”

“I’ve got a couple of those,” she admits. “And the stab wounds to show for trying to stitch them back together. Sometimes I feel like I quit because it’s hard, but it’s only because I’m scared of it becoming a different kind of hard, you know?”

She needs to focus on something that isn’t Nathaniel’s imploring face, so she turns her attention to lightly stroking the back of Hebby’s squishy fist, unable to stifle the coo that comes out of her mouth unbidden when five tiny fingers wrap themselves around her pinky on unconscious reflex. The only thing she failed to consider was how much closer she’s brought herself to Nathaniel in the process.

“Hey, look at that—out like a light. You’ve got the magic touch.” She carefully extracts her finger and steps away, crossing her arms and regarding the now-fast asleep Hebecca with amusement. “I think,” she begins, grinning because she knows exactly how much he’s going to hate it, “that maybe, you remind her of Darryl.”

She doesn’t bother to tell him that she only meant it height-wise—the excessively put-upon sigh he makes a show of heaving in her direction is everything she’d hoped for and more.

 

*

 

Rebecca jolts awake to a stimulus she can’t remember, but she thinks it might have been someone calling her name.

She hadn’t meant to doze off, but politely turning away when Nathaniel had started humming self-consciously into the crown of a hiccuping Hebecca's head had led to stretching out across his leather couch, and stretching out had led to closing her eyes for just a moment, and… well. At least one of them had been lulled into placation by his lullaby.

“No naps,” she mumbles with insistence. “I’m not napping.”

She pulls herself into some approximation of upright against the arm of the couch, and it’s only the motion of it slipping down that draws her attention to Nathaniel’s suit jacket and the way he’s draped it over her shoulders while she was sleeping. Wrapping her fingers around the dark blue wool of the lapel, she tugs it back into position, resisting the heady impulse to inhale. 

Its owner is perched on the edge of the desk in front of her, exposed shirtsleeves haphazardly rolled up to his elbows, his face radiating a flattering fusion of exhaustion and warmth, and she has to actively tamp down on the burst of fondness that sets itself free in her chest at the sight of him.

“Hey,” she says, still groggy. “Where’s Hebby?”

“Darryl just left. He said to tell you thank you.”

“Who, me? I barely did anything. Except fall asleep, apparently.” She looks up at him, sheepish. “I’ve started some new medication, and… yeah. Inconvenient side effects.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “Well, I appreciated the moral support. Even if it was entirely lacking. Pleasant dreams?”

“Beat a park bench, that’s for sure.”

Ignoring his funny look and dragging herself to her feet with extreme reluctance, she holds his jacket in front of her like some kind of shield that will help her keep her messy feelings in check. “I guess I should, um…” She gestures towards the door.

“I think about you too,” he blurts out, then runs a hand over his face. “Not… I mean, I do, but that’s not what I’m trying to say. There’s a voice in my head, now, telling me to be better. And it kind of sounds like you.”

A giddy sense of pride effervesces in her bloodstream at that—for all their dysfunction, it’s encouraging to know there was some kind of positive takeaway.

“I’m honoured. Really. And it may not seem like it right now,” she says, nose wrinkling as she gifts him a tiny smile, “but the best part is when the voice doesn’t sound like anyone anymore. It just becomes… you.”

It’s too quiet, too intimate; the lamplight too invitingly low, and she needs to leave before she starts to unspool. She steps closer to him as if she’s moving through liquid, sure to come just short of invading his personal space, and when she presses the jacket back into his hands, she’s careful to not quite let their fingers brush.

“Goodnight, Nathaniel,” she says gently.

She stops herself from letting her gaze linger over her shoulder at him as she leaves.


End file.
